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<title>those are you got some nice shoulders (i’d like to put my hands around them) by albinomagpie</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453371">those are you got some nice shoulders (i’d like to put my hands around them)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/albinomagpie/pseuds/albinomagpie'>albinomagpie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1990s, Best Friends in Love, Coming Out, Coming of Age, First Kiss, Good Parents Maggie &amp; Wentworth Tozier, Growing Up, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Intricate Rituals, Kissing, M/M, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Prom, Underage Drinking, Vulnerability, author watches too many 80s movies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:41:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453371</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/albinomagpie/pseuds/albinomagpie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever little control Richie felt he had over his own body dissolved rapidly and humiliatingly around June, which is coincidentally also when Eddie deemed it warm enough to start wearing shorts regularly. Like a bundle of kindling, Richie was consumed by ferocious, hungry heat as the days curled and blackened at the edges under the Maine sun.</p><p>(Alternatively: A year in which Richie confronts the horrors of tenth grade and a crush on his best friend that just won't quit.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>249</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>quick content warning before we start for homophobia (internalized and otherwise), homophobic language, repression, hate crimes, etcetera.<br/>canon-verse, but i'm pretending bev never moved because i don't want her to.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After Richie Tozier turns fifteen, the thick tangle of emotions that had been left to simmer in his belly at the age of twelve finally comes to a boil.</p><p>The thing is, Richie had surmised incorrectly that, by age fifteen, he had already gone through most, if not all, of the gruesome ordeal that one calls puberty. He had, for a few years now, felt that he was saturated completely with hormones, like the sugar solutions he was taught about in chemistry. So full of ‘em that if any more were added, they’d simply precipitate out, ooze from Richie’s body like sweat (another unfortunate side-effect to this whole horror-show that Richie was more than familiar with). </p><p>What he failed to consider is that even a saturated solution can, if heated, accommodate even more of the loathsome solute. And this summer had been a scorcher.</p><p>Whatever little control Richie felt he had over his own body dissolved rapidly and humiliatingly around June, which is coincidentally also when Eddie deemed it warm enough to start wearing shorts regularly. Like a bundle of kindling, Richie was consumed by ferocious, hungry heat as the days curled and blackened at the edges under the Maine sun.</p><p>The Fourth of July was the hottest Maine had seen in years, and it was also the last day that the entire Losers’ Club was together for the rest of the summer holiday. It was a good day, at least — splashing in the quarry in midday heat that settled into a clear blue evening, cool summer breeze buffeting them as they sat on the gently sloping hill near the centre of town and watched the fireworks. Richie sharing a smoke-smelling fleece blanket with Eddie, their bare legs tangled in an effort to quell the goosebumps.</p><p>From there on out, things only went downhill. Perhaps that was to be expected; after all, they couldn’t always spend every day together. Due to lingering uneasiness regarding The Worst Summer (Richie still can’t bring himself to think directly about it, akin to looking directly at the sun — can’t be done without great pains and also the feeling that there is something very large and terrible looming over everything), last summer they were glued together inexorably, often spending weeks at a time in each others’ presence to fend off the clinging sense of foreboding that haunted every dark basement and rusted sewer grate in Derry. </p><p>So, the circumstances were not great, but Richie had enjoyed the long stretches of company and had been looking forward to the same this summer, minus the nauseating apprehension since he was pretty sure that they were well and truly out of range of the horrors of two years ago.</p><p>So much for that. He barely saw any of them until it was nearly September, and he didn’t see Eddie at all until then.</p><p>Not for lack of trying, of course. Stan was visiting cousins in Michigan, a family event that he loathed. “My cousins are all girls,” he told Richie miserably before he left, “and all they want to do is hang around the mall every day. In the middle of <em>summer</em>.” The Urises packed up and shipped off in the second week of July, which left a large Stan-shaped hole in Richie’s social calendar. </p><p>Mike started picking up more work on the farm — summer was always tough for his grandpa, who was getting old and needed all the help he could get, Mike told Richie on the Fourth. </p><p>Beverly, who was Richie’s de-facto smoking partner because she was way too cool with his lack of filter and occasional meltdowns, had started dating Ben at the end of June, and they were probably off canoodling or making out or doing whatever it is that couples do. They really were sickeningly sweet together, and as such, could not possibly commiserate with Richie on his summer doldrums. </p><p>Actually, summer boredom was more apt where Richie was concerned. Bill had the monopoly on true summer doldrums, as he was quite broken up about Bev and Ben’s blossoming romance. This despite the fact that Bill had only dated Beverly for a handful of months after The Worst Summer, eventually calling it quits when they discovered they were infinitely better as friends than as a couple. Platonism had worked just fine for Bill for almost a year and a half, until Bev had asked Ben out and they quickly learned that they were just as strong (if not stronger) romantically as they were platonically. Since the genesis of this relationship Bill had been oscillating wildly between fleeting crushes on every girl who looked his way and periods of deep melancholia. July was mostly consumed by melancholia, so Bill rarely answered when Richie phoned his house and, when he did, he even more rarely wanted to leave said house.</p><p>Richie’s real point of contention, and the largest hole in his life that summer, was Eddie. Richie called the Kaspbrak residence every few days, but Sonia Kaspbrak usually picked up and informed him that her precious son was ill and could not be involved in whatever hooliganism or rough-housing that Richie was planning on involving him in. The handful of times he actually spoke to Eddie, who sounded very glum and not at all ill, he dolefully informed Richie that his mother was keeping him contained lest he catch a cold (if the weather was rainy) or early stage melanoma (if it was sunny). Richie then engaged him in sparkling conversation for ten to fifteen minutes, often relaying stupid jokes that he appropriated from Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader (to which Eddie would scoff and deliver a few critiques, ranging from the milder ‘<em>that’s so fucking gross, Richie</em>’ to the most cutting ‘<em>where did you read that one, Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader?</em>’) or otherwise trying out his newest Voices while simultaneously trying to guilt Eddie by expressing just how much alone, boring, free time he had to practice (usually met with a scathing ‘<em>with all that free time, you’d think they’d sound better’</em>). When Richie exhausted all forms of vocal entertainment, there were usually a few moments of uncomfortable silence before Eddie told Richie that he had to go, and that they would talk soon. These final moments were always soaked in misery on both ends — Eddie from being cooped up and too paranoid of being overheard to speak freely and Richie from being denied yet again an opportunity to spend time with his best friend-slash-crush. </p><p>As loathe as vulnerability was to Richie’s fifteen-year-old psyche, he pushed the revulsion aside on a single occasion to whine embarrassingly, <em>‘but I miss yooouu’</em> down the line at Eddie’s usual unhappy goodbye. The response was tense silence before a hastily whispered, <em>‘ImissyoutooRichie’</em>, followed immediately by the dial tone. Richie was left staring at the wall in their sunny kitchen where the landline resided, face burning. He hadn’t tried that again, nor brought it up in any of the subsequent conversations.</p><p>July evaporated in a blur of time spent alone. Regretfully, he got so bored that he started doing tedious adult things like watching PBS in the peak of the sweltering afternoons, gardening with his mother, and reading the newspaper. </p><p>It was this objectionable new routine that made him aware of the murder of Paul Broussard a few weeks into July.</p><p>It had happened in Houston, and was mostly news because Paul was a homosexual, and thus the entire story was very unconcerning to the editors of <em>The Derry Tribune</em>. Only a few lines and a couple of grainy photographs, including one of a handsome, tidy looking man. The article called it a hate crime, a man stabbed and left for dead on the basis of his sexual orientation. Richie imagined a version where his face was in place of Paul’s, thick glasses and too-wide mouth rendered in grainy black-and-white alongside a few lines about a local gay-bashing. The other photo that accompanied the article was from a protest march that took place a few weeks after the crime — a group of protesters holding a banner that spells out in large black letters: AN ATTACK ON ONE OF US IS AN ATTACK ON ALL OF US. </p><p>This had a very dizzying effect on Richie. He thought guiltily back to the night of the Fourth, when the murder took place. While this man was bleeding out on the concrete, states away, Richie had been tangled up with Eddie under a matted fleece blanket, sick with desire. It felt unmanageable enough on its own, these big feelings, but to be under attack for it, at risk of AIDS and parry knives and bloody fists — the thought swelled like hot air, stifling and out of his control. Richie stuffed the paper to the bottom of the garbage bin without thinking about it too hard and took a four hour nap to clear his head.</p><p>Somehow, August got even hotter. The long golden days stretched out in a daze, sweat-stained and monotonous. At least it was somewhat more tolerable than July, owing almost entirely to the fact that Bill’s mood had finally swung out of dejection and had landed firmly on lasciviousness. Richie was just glad to have someone that wasn’t his mom to spend his time with, even though Bill was near-constantly in fits of melodrama over girls he barely spoke to, and thus their hangouts were dominated by whatever girl Bill was currently smitten over. </p><p>One memorable week Richie and Bill went to see <em>Doc Hollywood</em> a total of eight times just so Bill could moon over the ticket seller, a girl named Susie who was in his ninth-grade language arts class last year. Susie hated Richie on account of him putting chewed gum in her pencil case when they were in the third grade, so she kept shooting him death glares while Bill flirted with her awkwardly. This along with the fact that Bill promised Richie that they’d go swimming but never followed through and that <em>Doc Hollywood</em> is not that good of a movie anyways made it an unfortunate week in Richie’s eyes. </p><p>Thankfully, Bill recovered from that particular crush soon thereafter and moved on to his next target — the cashier at the arcade, a pretty, college-aged girl who was one hundred percent out of Bill’s league. Richie didn’t mind that one as much because he scored lots of quality time with the Street Fighter machine, though it didn’t have the same hypnotic draw after The Worst Summer. Get called a faggot once, Richie thinks, and a whole summer’s, nay, a whole lifetime’s worth of enjoyment gets cut short. It’s a damn shame. Either way, Bill’s crush lasts only a few days, and maybe it’s the lack of success or the fact that tenth grade is fast approaching, but Bill’s mood is creeping dangerously close to melancholia again by the last week of August.</p><p>This afternoon, they’re in Richie’s bedroom, sprawled on the bed as the Super Mario World theme loops from the TV. School starts in exactly one week, so they’re trying to revel in lolling around doing very little.</p><p>“I j-just don’t know wh-what to do ah-about it, Richie,” Bill says forlornly.</p><p>They had gotten together with Ben and Beverly the night before, gone to the local diner for burgers and shakes. Stan had only just got back from camp, and thus had declined the invite, and of course Eddie was still confined to his house. (Curse him. Richie’s entire phone call to him had been wasted wheedling and whining and trying to convince him to come out with them. He thought he was making a breakthrough, but at the end of almost ten full minutes of pleading Eddie informed him that his mom was in a spectacularly awful mood and had relegated Eddie to movie-watching with her all evening. Richie hadn’t even had time to try out his newest Voice — a thick French accent that sounds suspiciously like Pepe Le Pew.) It had been fun nonetheless, good to see their other friends after so long apart, though it had sort of re-ignited Bill’s despondency over the whole thing.</p><p>Ben was obviously completely smitten, no surprise there, but Richie was a little surprised to see Bev’s equally affectionate manner with Ben. When Bill and her had been dating, there was very little to distinguish the relationship from their previous platonic friendship. So infrequent were the displays of any sort of romantic affection that it had briefly deluded poor Richie into thinking that he could maybe manage a romantic relationship with a girl to throw people off the scent. (This confused state had only lasted a few weeks, until he stealthily watched <em>Fatal Attraction </em>one night after his parents had gone to bed and realized that no chick was worth all of that.)</p><p>“Do what the rest of us do, Big Bill, jerk off and cry and get over it,” retorts Richie, only half-joking. Richie himself was only two-thirds of the way through his own advice, as so far he had done a whole lot of jerking off and an almost embarrassingly equal amount of crying without much luck in the getting-over-it department.</p><p>“I’ve t-tried that, and it’s n-not working.”</p><p>Richie laughs at this unexpected candor and props himself up on an elbow to look at his friend. Beams of late afternoon sunlight fall across Bill’s freckled face, illuminating every flyaway hair in a blaze of gold. “Jeez, you must be in it deep. I thought you guys had agreed that you were better off as friends.”</p><p>“Yeah, w-we did. I dunno… I kn-know her and Ben are re-really into each other a-and it didn’t really wo-work out between m-me and her before and it pr-probably wouldn’t now, but.” Bill heaves a melodramatic sigh. “Suh-sometimes you want th-things that you know you c-can’t have,” he says with all the wisdom and gravity a fifteen-year-old can muster.</p><p>And, god, doesn’t Richie know how true that is. He flops down on his back.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The last day of summer vacation is golden and warm, and Richie is almost giddy with excitement. Tonight his friends will finally all be in one place in what feels like ages, having a bonfire night at Mike’s farm. Of course, he’s excited to see all of them (perhaps with the exception of Bill. Richie loves him, but there’s only so much time he could spend with the man), or at least this is what he keeps ascertaining to himself as his brain plays a highlight reel of Eddie’s lithe legs in his tiny shorts.</p><p>“Someone’s certainly in a good mood today,” says Maggie as Richie bounds around the kitchen, slamming cupboards and spilling orange juice on the counter with marked enthusiasm. “You’re going out with your friends tonight, right? Where are you going again?”</p><p>“I told you before, Mike’s grandpa’s!”</p><p>“And who all is going to be there?”</p><p>Richie sighs heavily. This Question Time with Mom is putting a bit of a dampener on his good mood and forcing him to put the little film reel in his head on pause. “Everyone, mom! Eddie, Ben, Bev, Bill, Eddie, Mike, and Stan!”</p><p>Maggie hums. “You said Eddie twice, dear.”</p><p>Fuck. So much for playing it cool.</p><p>Maggie continues, “You know, speaking of Eddie, I haven’t seen him around here lately. Is Sonia still —”</p><p>“— a fucking insane person? Yeah, mom, she is. Who’da guessed?”</p><p>Maggie smirks at that, clearly amused. “Language, Richard. Hopefully Sonia lightens up once school is back in session. I know how much you missed Eddie this summer.”</p><p>Richie has to pretend to peer in the fridge for a prolonged amount of time to cool his burning face. He acutely regrets every moment of weakness he’s had in which he shared a sensitive piece of information involving <em>feelings </em>with his mother.</p><p>The summer had been particularly nasty for that, with all of Richie’s untouched free time. It started with him tagging along to various errands and somehow ended with Maggie giving him his own row in the garden to plant whatever he wanted. (He had originally told her that he was going to plant marijuana, but that had failed to get a rise out of her as she knew that not only would he have a hard time obtaining the seeds to do so, but also that her son was nowhere near a good enough gardener to cultivate any substantial amount of weed. He planted chives and parsley instead.) Those long, hot afternoons in the backyard had provided ample opportunity for Maggie to coerce Richie into conversations involving such reprehensible topics as friends and feelings and the upcoming horrors of tenth grade. </p><p>All of this suffice to say, she knows too much. </p><p>“I could not give less of a shit if Eddie’s mom keeps him inside for the entire school year,” Richie announces bluntly once his face has sufficiently cooled.</p><p>This was perhaps too far in the opposite direction, as Maggie raises her eyebrows in alarm. “Did you two get into a fight or something?”</p><p>Double fuck. “Nah, mom, we’re actually in love. The whole long-distance relationship thing is just really workin’ for us lately.”</p><p>Hm. Too revealing. The benefit of being Richie is that he frequently referred to himself in exaggerated and salacious terms, and thus confused most people just enough to avoid any lasting implications.</p><p>Maggie just gives him a look and returns to her novel. Richie retreats to his messy room and naps fitfully for the remainder of the afternoon.</p><p>He wakes sleep-groggy but excited. He’s never been one to really care about being put-together, but the fact that he’s seeing all of his friends (<em>Eddie</em>) for the first time in a while has him actually putting in an effort. So much so that he even gets his mother’s opinion, parading in front of her in the living room as she tells him to tuck in his shirt. </p><p>He scrutinizes himself in the bathroom mirror. His chubby cheeks have yet to recede, buck-teeth still prominent in his mouth. The constellations of acne spotting his jaw and downy dark hair starting to coat his upper lip are the only markers of teenagehood, the only thing that differentiates the Richie in the mirror now from the child he was so used to seeing. He pinches his cheeks until they’re faintly pink and then makes a face at himself, feeling stupid. </p><p>Richie gathers his bag (containing nothing but a half-full fifth of whiskey pilfered from his father), bike helmet, keys, and calls out a goodbye to his mother.</p><p>“Bye, baby. Say hi to Eddie for me,” Maggie says fondly.</p><p>Damn her.</p><p>It only takes him three minutes to bike to the Kaspbraks’, golden sunset creeping up the side of their house and illuminating Sonia watching infomercials in the living room.</p><p>Richie takes a shaky breath, all of a sudden feeling anxious. He pinches his cheeks again and bites his lips and immediately feels embarrassed. Stupid, girly shit, and anyways, Eddie had seen him in all his most unattractive moments (snot-nosed in elementary school, covered in sewer water and shaking like a leaf during That Summer, that one time in eighth grade when he got the stomach flu and threw up corndogs all over the school hallway and then cried about it afterwards), so a little bit of demure blush could do very little to change his impression at this point.</p><p>He bounds up the steps and bangs on the door. Through the screen on the half-open sitting room window, he hears Sonia scream “EDDIE! It’s one of your nasty little friends!” and with a jolt, a familiar shout back, “Be right there, Ma!” </p><p>A few moments later, Eddie steps out onto the porch. He busies himself with closing the front screen, an opportunity Richie takes to holler into the dusty sitting room, “Lookin’ sexy, Mrs. K!” </p><p>She affixes him with an affronted glare from afar as Eddie quickly yells, “He’s just being stupid don’t listen to him bye Ma!” and slams the door hurriedly. He turns to glare at Richie, an echo of the expression Sonia had just turned on him. “What the fuck, Richie, this is exactly why she wouldn’t let me hang out with you all summer.” </p><p>Richie is momentarily stunned by the full force of Eddie’s attention, attention of which he had been so cruelly deprived this summer. Eddie’s hair is combed smooth and his skin is lightly tanned and freckled and Richie could just die. They look at each other for a long moment, drinking in the sight. </p><p>“Did you have a little growth spurt, shortstack, or did your shorts somehow get shorter?” Richie says weakly. Eddie had accidentally given Richie a glimpse up his shorts last summer while they were wrestling and in the subsequent days Richie’s right wrist had endured the worst cramps of his life.</p><p>Eddie tugs at the hems self-consciously. “Shut up. Let’s go, asshole.”</p><p>Eddie retrieves his bike from the side of the house and they pedal off, sneaking glances at each other. Richie had spent the whole summer wanting nothing but to talk to Eddie, see Eddie, be with Eddie — but now that he was here, every thought or joke or, god forbid, every sexual innuendo had all but vanished from his brain. </p><p>His stupid, hormone-addled brain that could only focus on how the summer sun had caramelized Eddie right up, tanned his skin honey-brown.</p><p>Fuck, too many food metaphors. Richie’s fucking starving.</p><p>“Eds,” Richie says. “Look what I have.” He twists around on his bike to clumsily reach into his knapsack and grab the bottle of whiskey but ends up wobbling so badly on his bike that he almost tips over. Eddie stops too and scowls at Richie in some familiar combination of derision and concern. Once Richie regains his balance he holds out the bottle triumphantly.</p><p>Eddie regards him for a moment, and then grabs the bottle and takes a swig. “You’re a bad influence,” he says, wiping a forearm over his mouth.</p><p>Richie takes a sip, too, feeling hot in the face and painfully aware of the wetness around the rim.</p><p>They stow the whiskey and continue their journey. Mike’s family’s farm is on the outskirts of town, so it’s a full fifteen minute ride. Richie pedals standing-up, partly to show off for Eddie but also just to feel the sun-warmed summer air moving against his body. </p><p>When they get to the house, there’s already a small heap of bicycles in front of the little wooden porch, which they add to before circling around the house to the field behind it. Most of their friends are already there, Mike stoking a smoldering little fire. Bev is talking animatedly, one arm around Ben and the other with a cigarette grasped loosely between her fingers. Bill is looking at the couple with a little bit of a forlorn expression, at which Richie almost laughs aloud. Before he can, he notices the back of a familiar curly head.</p><p>“STAN THE MAN!” Richie hollers, tackling Stan into a hug from behind, knocking the breath out of him with a small <em>oof</em>. </p><p>There’s a chorus of greetings from the rest of the group. Eddie takes a seat and leaves an open spot between him and Stan. Richie’s chest feels warm. </p><p>He releases Stan from his crushing embrace and ruffles his curls fondly, almost knocking loose his yarmulke. He looks tanned, his hair grown a little longer around his ears and the nape of his neck.</p><p>Richie snags Bev’s cigarette (ignoring her playfully indignant “hey!”) and takes a seat on the log between Stan and Eddie. The group is starting to break out the little plastic packs of hot dogs and bags of marshmallows, to the sharp relief of Richie’s grumbling stomach.</p><p>“How was Michigan, Staniel, how’re the Uris cousins?” Richie says, taking a pull from the cigarette. “Any of ‘em hot now?” </p><p>Stan wrinkles his nose. “They’re my cousins, Richie, ew. Anyway, they weren’t actually all that bad, this time.” To Richie’s surprise, Stan is blushing, gaze fixed shyly at his clasped hands in his lap. “My cousins introduced me to all their friends, and there was this one girl...”</p><p>“Wait, d-did you get a g-girlfriend, Stan?” Bill asks enviously.</p><p>Richie gasps in mock outrage (and maybe a tiny bit of real shock), “Stan, you dog! Gettin’ your dick wet with one of your cousins’ friends!” </p><p>“Beep <em>beep</em>, Richie, no one got their dick wet. It was just — her name is Anna, and we just, I dunno, hung out a lot. And… kissed, a little bit.”</p><p>Excited sounds from most of the group, and Bill gives Stan a congratulatory slap on the back.</p><p>“Was she your first kiss?” Ben asks, and Stan nods. </p><p>“Yeah. We’ve agreed to write to each other, and hopefully she can come visit at some point.”</p><p>“That’s so exciting, Stan! We can do a double date if she comes here,” Beverly says jovially, squeezing Ben’s shoulders. </p><p>“Maybe we could do a triple date,” Mike says shyly.</p><p>“Yeah, me and Eddie’s mom could come along,” Richie cracks, earning an elbow in the ribs from Eddie, but the rest of the group is excitedly interrogating Mike.</p><p>“You guys remember Daisy? Her family owns the farm next to ours. My granddad does a lot of trading with her dad, and we started going steady earlier this summer. She’s really nice, we have a lot in common — both homeschooled, both come from farming families.” Mike shrugs, clearly pleased.</p><p>Richie is in disbelief. He takes a couple of deep gulps from his whiskey bottle, before passing it to Eddie who has been poking at his side for it for the past few minutes. </p><p>“<em>Jee-</em>zus, you guys, when did you all become so lovesick? This is what happens when you don’t hang out with me for a coupla weeks, you start gettin’ tricked into corny Hallmark shit,” Richie says, a little too loudly.</p><p>“W-we’re all tee-teenagers, now, R-Richie,” Bill says matter-of-factly. “Wh-what, you don’t like ah-anybody?” </p><p>“Nah, I’m too smart to get swindled into that shit. Use ‘em and lose ‘em, that’s my philosophy. Why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free?” Ladies and gents, Richie Tozier! His mouth just doesn’t stop!</p><p>Bev raises her eyebrows in a challenge. “Wow, Richie, I knew you could be a real jerk but I never took you for a chauvinist.” </p><p>Fuck, fuck, fuck. He should’ve just shut up, why can’t he ever just shut up? “I — C’mon, Bev, you know I —”</p><p>“Besides, I happen to know that <em>no one</em> is giving you the milk for free,” she says tartly, expression dissolving into a smirk. </p><p>The group laughs, there’s some scattered ‘ooooh’s. </p><p>“Har-de-har, I get it, trash the Trashmouth. That’s all fine and good for you guys, but you know I’m never gonna get tied down to a broad.” Because he’s a player, of course. Not for any other reason, especially not because he’s, <em>you know</em>. Did he make that clear enough? </p><p>Mike laughs. “I gotta be honest, I can’t see you ever getting married, Rich.” </p><p>“Oh my <em>god</em>, can you imagine Richie as a husband?” Bev cackles. “There’s no way!” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, virgins. We’ll see how funny it is when your girlfriends see how much better I am in the sack than you.” Jesus, his mouth is gonna get him in real trouble one day. Everyone’s laughing now, at least.</p><p>“I mean, people literally nicknamed <em>Trashmouth</em> aren’t really the typical marrying type,” Stan says.</p><p>“Okay, but what does that even mean? Are there really some people that are more the ‘marrying type’ than others?” Eddie pipes up nervously, wiping his mouth with his forearm. Richie realizes that he had been pounding back the whiskey while the rest of them were taking jabs at Richie, the bottle almost half-empty. </p><p>Bev squeezes Ben’s shoulders. “Ben is.” </p><p>Eddie, Stan and Mike ‘awww’ at that, while Richie and Bill make retching noises.</p><p>Ben blushes. He’s changed, physically, a lot — he and Eddie joined the track team last year, and Ben had dropped a decent proportion of his puppy fat. Richie had seen this transition throughout all of its baby steps, being in the stands at every track meet of the season. Underneath the newly toned muscle, though, he’s still the same shy, lovestruck kid as when Richie first met him.</p><p>Ben also hasn’t said much throughout this little discussion, Richie realizes. He’s been sitting quietly next to Bev, content to take in the laughter and jokes of his friends; this was not unusual. He’s looking at Richie absently, in a way that gives Richie a funny feeling in his own chest. Richie screws up his face and sticks his tongue out, and Ben seems to come back to himself. He smiles at Richie self-consciously and returns his attention to the others as the conversation veers from Richie’s astounding lack of wed-ability to more interesting things like Bill’s uncanny ability to swallow a hot dog whole. </p><p>At some point, after the sun sets, everyone is tipsy enough that the conversation has devolved into loud laughter with no particular catalyst and stupid jokes tossed back and forth across the simmering fire. Richie and Eddie polish off the whiskey and get a decent start on the bottle of tequila Bev brought. </p><p>Bev and Ben start kissing, soft and tender in a way that makes Richie feel like an intruder. <em>God, I hope Bill doesn’t see that</em>, Richie thinks immediately, but then feels guilty because he does really like Ben and he thinks, albeit secretly, that Ben and Beverly make a better couple than Bill and Beverly ever did. A quick glance verifies that Bill is deep in drunken conversation with Stan and Mike, but Richie still finds his own eyes drawn to the couple.</p><p>He tears his gaze away and meets Eddie’s eyes almost immediately. Fuck. A hot something melts down his back, sticky and warm.</p><p>“Eddie,” he says, head swimming from the booze, “Eddie, Eddie, Eds.” </p><p>Eddie smirks at him. His eyes are wide and dark dark dark, tanned skin smooth and perfect with twin streaks of blush up both of his cheeks. The way that Eddie blushes, Richie thinks, is positively unfair. He himself just gets completely red in the face, color seeping into his ears like crimson dye on tissue paper. But Eddie, Eddie instead gets these brush strokes of pink going diagonally across his cheeks. Like a painting. Like makeup, almost, except it doesn’t rub off (Richie had tried before). </p><p>“Eddie,” he says, “Baby Eddie Spaghetti. I feel like I’ve barely seen you all summer.” More candid than he’d normally be, but what the hell, they’re both drunk enough.</p><p>Eddie huffs out a sigh, looking genuinely put-out. “My mom, she’s gotten ten times crazier than she used to be, I swear.” He’s slurring a little bit, rosy flush dipping into the collar of his polo shirt, and Richie wants to do horrible things.</p><p>Richie shivers and turns it into a violent shrug. “You didn’t miss much, to be honest, Spaghetti. Everybody’s been busy gettin’ girlfriends, seems like. I mostly hung out with Bill, and even that was mostly just dogging him around as he flirted with every be-titted woman in Derry.”</p><p>“Okay first of all, be-titted is not a word. And second of all, gross.” Eddie wrinkles his nose. “What about you? Lemme guess, no girl was interested?”</p><p>Richie hoots and leans into Eddie. “Eds gets off a good one! Nah, I could barely keep ‘em offa me. You know how it is, once I turn on my Tozier charm it attracts the ladies like flies to honey.” He winks ostentatiously.</p><p>“Or to shit.”</p><p>God, Richie wants to kiss him so badly. “Little Eddie is just fulla chucks tonight!”</p><p>“Don’t you ever call me Little Eddie ever again, Jesus fucking Christ.”</p><p>“Aw, just Richie is fine,” Richie says, tossing an arm around Eddie’s shoulders as Eddie rolls his eyes.</p><p>They fall into an easy silence, listening to the drunken chatter of their friends. Bev and Ben are somehow still making out on the outskirts of the circle. </p><p>“Jeez, they never come up for air, huh,” Richie cracks.</p><p>“I think it’s sweet,” Eddie says with a sigh.</p><p>In Richie’s head, he hears the echo of Eddie’s earlier question, <em>are some people more the marrying type?</em> and then Bev’s easy affectionate, <em>Ben is</em>. </p><p>“Hey Eds,” Richie starts, squeezing Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie looks up at him, their faces close. As always, the full attention of his doe eyes is almost too much. The firelight bathes his freckled skin in flickering golden light. Richie swallows hard.</p><p>“Eddie,” he continues. “D’you think, going back to the earlier conversation, and keep in mind I know I’m not some sort of, like, Fabio, but do you think I could be the marr—”</p><p>He’s interrupted by the piercing double-beep of Eddie’s watch.</p><p>“Fuck,” Eddie swears. “It’s eleven-fucking-fifteen already, I hafta be home in fifteen or my mom’s gonna kill me.”</p><p>When it comes to Eddie’s mom, this is a non-negotiable curfew. She doesn’t even know where he actually is, thinks they’re all doing school prep at Ben’s.</p><p>Eddie’s shrill alarm had a somewhat sobering effect on Richie, bringing him back to himself. Jesus, he thinks, I need to stop drinking around Eddie. Richie already had an unfortunate tendency to move his mouth before his brain could slam on the brakes, and booze severed the brake cords entirely.</p><p>Richie stows the rest of the tequila in his rucksack before Bev can see and slings it over his shoulder.</p><p>“You don’t have to come, Richie,” Eddie says softly. “If you’re having fun.”</p><p>Richie’s mind returns unbidden back to the earlier conversation. He more than anyone plays into the idea of him as a ladykiller, a stud, a non-gay non-virgin. It’s easier that way, more comfortable, for the most part. With Eddie, though — the last thing he wants (for reasons he’s trying not to think too hard about) is to make Eddie think he’s unromantic. To destroy any tenuous neuronal threads between Richie and romance in Eddie’s mind, that would be terrible. </p><p>“Of course I want to come,” says Richie. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to usher you home, m’lady.”</p><p>They bid goodbyes to their friends and make their wobbly way home, bicycles swaying under the inky-velvet sky. It’s early September now, and Maine is still sun-soaked during the daylight hours, but in the very middle of the night you can feel the barest whisper of bracing fall air.</p><p>Their bikes pull up outside the Kaspbrak house four minutes before Eddie’s curfew. The stale floral curtains are drawn, but the faint yellowish glow from the windows is a harbinger of Sonia’s oppressive presence.</p><p>Eddie swears lightly. He dismounts and tosses his bike to the lawn, then turns to face Richie. “Do I look drunk to you?”</p><p>Richie’s allowed to look, was given permission to look by Eddie himself. He stares openly. The truth is, Eddie looks a little bit drunk, pupils blown dark and cheeks so flushed it looks as if he’s been slapped. His lips bitten pink. Richie squirms on the seat of his bicycle.</p><p>“You look good, Eds,” he says truthfully.</p><p>Eddie smiles at him, and then with a quick glance at the veiled windows of his house, rushes forward to toss his arms around Richie’s shoulders before he goes. It’s a loose, drunken hug; Eddie presses his perfect pink cheek to Richie’s scraggly, acne-covered one. </p><p>Richie bikes home, fast fast fast. He lets the late night air billow out his shirt and cool his skin. (Not cool enough, not after <em>that</em>, whatever that was.)</p><p>By the time Richie falls into bed he’s aching, in desperate need of release. It’s just another addition to the growing list of betrayals his body has staged against him. He refuses to touch himself.</p><p>His mind keeps replaying Stan and his summer romance, Mike and his new almost-girlfriend, Ben and Bev kissing quietly, easily, unthinkingly amongst their friends. </p><p>He thinks of Ben’s gentle courtship of Beverly. Ben’s love; delicate, soft-petaled and blooming and pleasant to behold. Nothing like Richie’s own hairy, consuming desire, uncontainable and clawing. Difficult to look at, when you were unfortunate enough to see it rear its ugly head.</p><p>He finally drifts into a fitful sleep and has confusing, loopy dreams. Eddie’s there, Eddie’s almost always there in his dreams nowadays. His dreams that contain equal parts horror and pleasure, though when Richie wakes up to sticky pajama pants and a shaking, sweaty body, he’s not so sure he can differentiate the two anymore. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Tenth grade is only a few weeks old, and it already sucks big dicks. Richie barely has any classes with his friends, which is stupid because only last year he had Eddie in math and science, Stan in history, and Bill in English. (There were a lot of chucks made about Bill’s stutter. “Ah say, ah say speak English, boy!” in Richie’s best Foghorn Leghorn.) This year, he’s all by himself for most of his classes, save for one — science with Ben. </p><p>It’s because of this mutual class that he starts hanging out with Ben more, mostly studying and projects. It’s not the same as the closeness he has with Eddie and Bill and Stan, practically tripping over himself to holler across the room claiming one of them as his partner the moment the teacher announced any sort of group work. No, things with Ben are a lot more subdued — they simply meet eyes, Ben’s round cheeks plumping in a small smile, a silent pact of partnership. </p><p>The thing is, Richie sort of realized shortly into the term that he and Ben had never actually hung out one-on-one before, a phenomenon mostly due to their differing personalities and general insecurity regarding how to interact with one another. Ben, being kind, understanding and genuine, has very little idea of what to do with Richie; and Richie, being weird, loud and kind of offensive, has no idea what to do with Ben. This led to some awkward moments during the infancy of their partnership, some offensive jokes of Richie’s that didn’t land quite right or well-meaning questions of Ben’s that Richie, so used to obfuscating his true feelings via offensive jokes or lewd innuendos, was at a loss on how to respond. By the end of September they had managed to get past most of that and into a somewhat more comfortable alliance.</p><p>They’re working on their latest project at Ben’s house one day after school, a poster of a cell, cut open and labelled. They divvied up the jobs at the beginning — Ben is drawing and labelling while Richie is coloring in the different parts. (Richie was a master of persuading Ben to give him the easiest half of a project. At least, this is what he thought, but in Ben’s eyes this was simply the easiest way to obtain a good grade without any Richie-related headaches.)</p><p>“So,” says Richie, unable to handle silence for more than a few minutes at a time, “so, Benny-boy, howsit goin’ with Bev? You guys fucked yet?”</p><p>Ben blushes. “Uh, things are going great, actually. Um, no, but she’s — she’s really great. I still can’t believe we’re officially together.” </p><p>“Yeah, no kidding. You guys sure mack on each other a lot.” Richie punctuates this by waggling his eyebrows suggestively.</p><p>Ben smiles, looking both embarrassed and pleased. “I guess so. It’s nice. I’ve never had a girlfriend before, and I’m glad that she’s my first one.” </p><p>“Yeah, well, that seems to be pretty fuckin’ common around here,” Richie grumbles. “Like, all of you guys, you’re all getting <em>girlfriends</em> and — and, this summer, I barely saw anyone, and then you all come back and it’s like it’s all anyone can talk about. Girls, I mean.”</p><p>Ben is thoughtful. “I guess I can see that. Stan, with Anna, and Mike and Daisy. And me and Bev. What about Bill, or Eddie?”</p><p>“I hung out with Bill waaay too much this summer, when he decided he was gonna pursue anything that moves with tits.” </p><p>Ben makes a disapproving noise.</p><p>“Ugh, fine, <em>boobs</em>, breasts, whatever. We went to the movie theatre like <em>every</em> <em>day</em> for a week. Because he had a thing for the ticket girl,” Richie says, pained.</p><p>“And Eddie?”</p><p>“Christ, I’m sure Eddie would be right there alongside Bill, if his mother would ever let him leave the fucking house.” </p><p>“I dunno, I’ve never seen him go after girls,” Ben says, and what the fuck is <em>that</em> supposed to mean? “And, well, I’m sure you’ll get there. Thinking about love, I mean. We’re still young, there’s no rush, Richie.”</p><p>A couple of minutes pass in silence, Ben flipping through their textbook as Richie finishes coloring the Golgi apparatus a garish pink. It’s all swirling around his head now, and he feels the nauseating urge to keep going.</p><p>“I never said anything about <em>love</em>,” Richie says sourly. “You heard me at the campfire, I’m one unromantic sunuvabitch, I’ll never get married, yada yada. I know everyone looks at me and thinks, oh, this guy will never be a romantic.” </p><p>Ben looks surprised at that, and Richie’s already said too much. This was the trap with conversations with Ben; he got you talking with his beguiling and kindly ways and suddenly it was like you had sprung a leak that would gush and gush and gush until you had emptied your insides in a puddle on his bedroom floor.</p><p>“I don’t think that,” says Ben. </p><p>“What?” Richie had gotten lost in the mental image of his raw, heartsick guts on Ben’s floor.</p><p>“I don’t think you’re… not a romantic.” </p><p>“Why the fuck not? Have you heard the way I talk about women?” Richie feels strangely defensive. </p><p>Ben shrugs. “I don’t think that the, uh, way you talk about women is a real marker of your feelings.”</p><p>“What are you, my shrink?” Richie squawks. “I don’t — I’ve never — I just feel,” this is painful, utterly torturous, every time he has to use the word <em>feel</em> in a conversation a small piece of his soul dies, “like everyone’s starting to have feelings, and I’m just… not.”</p><p>Ben hums thoughtfully. “Feelings, or feelings for girls?”</p><p>It’s such a loaded question, Ben must know that. </p><p>“Feelings for girls, I guess,” Richie mumbles after a lengthy pause. Coloring the mitochondria had suddenly become utterly enthralling, so much so that he can’t tear his eyes away to meet Ben’s presumably kind, understanding expression. </p><p>Damn him.</p><p>“Just because you don’t have feelings for girls, doesn’t mean you’re not a romantic. There are other ways to be a romantic, Richie,” Ben says cryptically. </p><p>At this point they reach a fundamental impassé, with Richie being shell-shocked by this compassionate ambush and Ben unsure if he’s said the wrong thing and somehow managed to offend Richie, which, though he didn’t, would have been quite the feat.</p><p>“So, uh, how are your other classes going,” Richie chokes out after a few minutes of heavy silence. </p><p>It’s an obvious change of topic, but Ben must see how desperately Richie needs it. Avoiding eye contact, guts metaphorically in a puddle on his carpet. Ben allows it, and graciously starts talking about his incompetent new history teacher.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>So, the world doesn’t crumble under Richie’s feet because someone maybe-possibly-potentially <em>knows</em>. Richie considers himself lucky, really, because of all the people that could find out, Ben is undeniably the most harmless. He doesn’t tease Richie about it, even when they’re alone, which is positively mind-boggling. Especially because Richie had a bit of a reputation for constantly, relentlessly making chucks out of anything, of which Ben was more than occasionally the subject. </p><p>Richie still freaks out about it, just a little bit. </p><p>The mere fact that Ben was able to see past the smokescreen bullshit that comes out of his mouth and into the soft, tender meat of his heart means that there must be some sort of external tip-off. Forensic evidence of his faggotry. </p><p>It’s just another imagined betrayal of his own body, a rebellion against his tender psyche. To compensate, he increases his crude, sexual comments about women in both volume and frequency, and ignores Ben’s steady gaze. </p><p>In bed he stares at glossy pages of barely-dressed women in his pilfered copy of Sports Illustrated, trying not to let his mind wander. Like training a wild animal, forcing an association between pleasure and a neutral stimulus. </p><p>For the next few months he avoids one-on-one time with Eddie, sitting across from him at their lunch table instead of pressed up next to him. Eddie’s birthday is fun, at least. They do a party at Bill’s house, with a comically oversized homemade card with the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EDDIE! scrawled in multicolored marker. They forgo on balloons (Eddie hates balloons, gets a funny feeling in his stomach every time he sees them) and instead put up dollar-store bunting and streamers ringing Bill’s living-room walls. Richie gives Eddie a shoddily-wrapped package of uncooked spaghetti, as a joke, and Eddie rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue but still gives Richie a tight, fierce hug.</p><p>By the end of November, Eddie’s had enough.</p><p>“I’m coming over to yours on Friday,” he says to Richie one day at school. “Let’s watch a movie.” </p><p>“I — uh — jeez, Eds, way to just invite yourself over,” Richie says, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“I feel like we haven’t hung out in forever, Rich, not just the two of us.”</p><p>And Richie can’t say no to Eddie, especially not when he himself has been feeling the itch that comes with not seeing Eddie for too long. On Thursday he actually cleans the living room and announces to his parents that Eddie is coming over tomorrow and could they please stay in their bedroom or go out for dinner or something. </p><p>Maggie raises her eyebrows. “Why the need to be alone? Are you boys planning on drinking? We’ll be locking the liquor cabinet, young man.”</p><p>“No, mom.” Richie had pinched a nearly-full bottle of vodka from said cabinet just last week, so he was good for a week or two at least. “We’re just gonna watch a movie.” </p><p>“Went?”</p><p>“Oh, please, papa,” Richie says in his Southern belle Voice. He bats his eyelashes and clutches his hands demurely. “Ah’m awful lonely, an’ if yah don’t allow any eligible fellas to come ‘round, ah ain’t nevah gonna be wed.” </p><p>Wentworth gives Richie a look overtop of his reading glasses and drawls, “Ain’t no boy in this here town good enough for mah darlin’, the good Lawrd knows.” His Voices were always much better than Richie’s, a fact that Richie resented.</p><p>In his normal voice, Went says, “that’s fine, son. Just don’t make a mess.” </p><p>“Why, thank yah, papa! Ah’m the happiest dame this town evah did see!” Richie shouts, already bounding off before they can change their mind.</p><p>“Work on the accent, Richard,” Went says dryly.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>On Friday at 7, Eddie shows up at the Toziers’ with a VHS tucked under his freckled arm. </p><p>“<em>Dirty Dancing</em>? Seriously, Eds? This is for chicks, you know that, right?”</p><p>“Don’t call me Eds, and no the fuck it’s not,” Eddie hisses after a perfunctory glance around to ensure Mr. and Mrs. Tozier are not in hearing range. “I borrowed it from Ben, who’s not a chick, so.”</p><p>Richie snorts. “No offense to Haystack, but that’s not really helping your case. Plus, you said we could watch <em>Texas Chainsaw Massacre</em>.”</p><p>“I <em>never</em> said that, Rich, what the fuck! I will not be watching that — that fucking gore fest —”</p><p>“Aww, is widdle Eddie scawed?” Richie coos, looping Eddie in a headlock. Well, it was meant to be a headlock, but it came out too gentle so it was more like an odd-angled embrace.</p><p>Eddie swipes Richie’s arm off his shoulders. “Fuck you, asshole, I’m not watching it. We’re gonna watch the one I fucking brought.”</p><p>“You come into my house, on the day my daughter is to be married, and you ask me to watch a chick flick,” Richie rumbles in his best Don Corleone. </p><p>“That impression is a fucking crime against cinema, Rich, and I suggested that we do this in the first place! So I get to choose the movie!”</p><p>“Yeah, you invited yourself to my house and ipso facto I get to choose what we watch.”</p><p>“Ipso facto — the fuck?”</p><p>“It’s Latin, Edwardo.” </p><p>“Since when do <em>you</em> know Latin?” Eddie says, wrinkling his nose.</p><p>“Since I became super smart and realized it would help me woo chicks if I knew the language of love.” Since he was left mostly alone all summer and started being a regular viewer of PBS. </p><p>“That’s Italian, dipshit.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The language of love. It’s Italian, not Latin.”</p><p>They stare at each other for several long moments as Richie wracks his brain for any subconsciously attained Italian phrases to continue this (in Richie’s mind) flirtatious banter but, in his flustered state, can’t come up with any Italian besides <em>spaghetti bolognese</em>.</p><p>Eddie’s cheeks flush and he breaks their stare. “Anyways, I’ve been wanting to see this movie and Ben said it was really good and my mom won’t let me watch it because she says it’s <em>sexually deviant</em> and so we’re gonna watch it now and you’ll just have to deal with it.” This delivered as a rapid-fire monologue as he brandishes the VHS at Richie.</p><p>“Well, jeez, Eds, you never mentioned it was sexually deviant. Pop ‘er in,” Richie says cheerfully, flopping down on the couch.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Richie knows this movie is for chicks, but he gets pretty into it anyways. “Aw, Eds, your nickname should be Baby!”</p><p>“Shut up, I’m tryna watch,” Eddie says, cheeks pinkening.</p><p>“It suits you, Baby,” Richie says, poking Eddie in his side. It was easier when they were side-by-side like this, for some reason. Adjacent. Like the earth-shaking force that was Eddie’s head-on attention is facing outwards, and Richie can just squeak in on the side to avoid its paralyzing effect.</p><p>Patrick Swayze grinds up on a girl on screen. Richie shoots a sidelong glance at Eddie, who’s watching the screen with rapt attention. </p><p>Richie clears his throat. “Pretty hot, huh?”</p><p>This breaks Eddie’s concentration, snapped out of it like it was a form of hypnosis, and he looks wide-eyed at Richie. “What? Who?” </p><p>It’s almost too tempting, to just say it and wait for the reaction. <em>Swayze, he’s hot, right</em>. See if Eddie’s face screws up in repulsion, if he pushes himself away from Richie and breaks the cherished points of contact between their bodies of which Richie is all-too aware.</p><p>Or. Or, if Eddie nods and says <em>yeah, I’ve always thought that, guys are just so much more</em> — </p><p>Stupid idea. Instead, Richie gestures at the screen and bugs his eyes out. “The dancing! You’re tellin’ me you wouldn’t wanna do that with a hot girl?”</p><p>Eddie’s mouth screws up. “Uh, I dunno. Shut up, I’m trying to listen.” </p><p>They finish the rest of the movie in relative silence, save for Richie’s occasional commentary. Mostly, Richie is just enjoying the proximity. Shared warmth and the tidal movements of Eddie’s ribcage against his own torso.</p><p>By the time the credits roll, Eddie is leaning listlessly into Richie, warm and pliant. He hums gently, and Richie can feel the reverberations.</p><p>Richie nudges Eddie. “Well, Ben was right, that movie was pretty fuckin’ good. Kinda cheesy, but what else would you expect from ol’ Haystack.” </p><p>“I like cheesy.” Eddie sighs wistfully. “Man, I dunno if I’ll ever find romance like that.”</p><p>“Aw, you will, Eddie Spaghetti, you’re just too cute not to,” Richie says, pinching Eddie’s cheek as he scowls. </p><p>“Fuck you!” Eddie says, slapping his hands off. “<em>You’re</em> cute, you asshole.”</p><p>Richie laughs. “Nah, you’re the cute one, I’m the sexy one. You’re Baby, I’m Johnny.”</p><p>“Richie, you fucking wish you were Johnny. You’re skinny as fuck and you can’t even walk straight without falling on your face.” </p><p>“You haven’t seen my <em>moves</em>, Baby, so you wouldn’t know.” </p><p>“I’ve seen your ‘move’ where you trip over your own legs and have to go to the nurse. Does that count?” Eddie says sweetly.</p><p>This is referring to an incident in the spring in which Richie tried out for the track team and humiliated himself in front of the world and Eddie, the latter being much more important to him and the entire reason he tried out in the first place. The memory still smarts a little bit, but Richie can’t deny its potential for good chucks.</p><p>Richie whoops. “Yowza, Eds gets off a good one!” He shoots up and grabs Eddie’s hands, yanking him to his feet.</p><p>“Richie, what — !” </p><p>Richie clumsily spins Eddie and attempts to dip him, which doesn’t really work because Eddie is actually much stronger and steadier on his feet than Richie ever was.</p><p>“C’mon, Baby, lemme show ya a good time,” Richie says playfully in his best approximation of a New York accent, and this must do something for Eddie because he rolls his eyes but grasps Richie’s right hand in his left. </p><p>Soon they’re stumbling over each other in a bastardized waltz. It’s fun, sloppy and they’re really terrible dancers but they’re laughing breathlessly and Richie feels giddy. </p><p>“If we practice we can get really good and go to prom together,” Richie says. “Show up all those other chucklefucks.”</p><p>Eddie’s cheeks are flushed a healthy pink and he keeps staring at the floor to avoid tripping over Richie’s too-big feet. “No matter how good we get, we’ll never be good enough to avoid embarrassing ourselves in front of the whole school.”</p><p>Richie adjusts his sweaty grip on Eddie’s hand and feels something try to crawl its way up his throat. </p><p>“Would you want to, though?”</p><p>They stop dancing abruptly as Eddie lifts his head, studying Richie in confusion.</p><p>Richie swallows roughly. A gentle thrum fuzzes in his ears, the VHS long since petered out to crackling static. Their rough breathing fills up the humid space between their bodies.</p><p>“Eddie,” he says, and then stops. </p><p>“Rich, prom isn’t for another, like, six months,” Eddie rambles. “And, I mean, yeah, we’ll probably all go as a group, right?”</p><p>Richie doesn’t want to have to say it, doesn’t even know if he can say it. The things he hasn’t ever said aloud, not even to himself. But Eddie’s eyes are searching him, anxious and he knows his own face is pale and sweaty and he can’t just do nothing, not this time.</p><p>Before he can chicken out, he leans in and kisses Eddie on the cheek. </p><p>He must have done it a dozen times before, always playful and smacking and punctuated with a schmaltzy ‘<em>mwah!</em>’ sound. This time, though, there’s none of the farcical trimmings behind which Richie can hide. It’s soft, tender, terrifyingly unmistakeable in its significance.</p><p>When Richie pulls back, Eddie’s expression blooms in some sort of realization, naked and terrified. Richie can feel his galloping pulse through their clasped hands, his breath picking up. </p><p>“Oh, Richie… I don’t —” Eddie gently extricates himself from Richie’s hold, and Richie feels ill. “I can’t — I don’t —” He stops and takes a shuddering breath. “I think I should go home now.”</p><p>“Eddie, I didn’t mean to —”</p><p>“No, no, I know, it’s not — ” Eddie’s gathering his jacket and VHS tape, looking like he’s falling just short of panicking. He looks at Richie, dark eyes desperate with some emotion that Richie can’t decipher. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m so sorry, Richie.” </p><p>“I’ll go — I’ll go get my mom, she can drive you home,” Richie says numbly.</p><p>“Thanks, Rich,” Eddie murmurs. </p><p>Richie moves to escape up the stairs, but only makes it a few steps before he turns.</p><p>“Please, please don’t tell anyone about this, Eddie. Please,” Richie says. In front of him, the image of Eddie blurs and tilts.</p><p>Eddie looks stricken. “Richie, I — of course not. I would — I would never.” </p><p>Maggie fixes Richie with a concerned glance when he comes into his parents’ room. Blessedly, she doesn’t say anything, just rubs his shoulder and grabs the car keys from the dresser.</p><p>“Everything alright, Richard?” Went asks, eyebrows furrowing with worry.</p><p>Richie just nods, not trusting himself to speak.</p><p>He doesn’t wait to see Eddie off, ignoring the small polite voice thanking his mom for the ride as he retreats to his bedroom. What he really needs is a good cry, but his body refuses to cooperate. He’s stoppered with emotion, thick and heavy and clogging his throat. His heart feels rotten in his chest.</p><p>He dreams again, about Eddie. It’s as confusing as it usually is, jumbled and sensual and horrific and now suffused with so much guilt Richie feels sick with it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>if you're interested, you can read more about paul broussard <a href="https://www.houstonlgbthistory.org/banner1991.html">here</a> and <a href="http://www.texasobituaryproject.org/071291broussard.html">here</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December sweeps in bitterly after things fall apart with Eddie. The air is hard with frost, snow coating the tree branches and draping over the lawns, but Richie still feels like he’s burning up inside. He squanders long, frozen afternoons in his bedroom, trying not to feel sorry for himself to the sounds of The Smiths.</p><p>Richie had been expecting things to get weird with Eddie. He <em>knows</em>, now, the inexorable fact of Richie as not only a homosexual, but a homosexual who is homo-ly sexual for <em>Eddie</em>. Richie wouldn’t have blamed him if he had told all their friends, distanced himself from Richie’s persistent gaze, stopped seeing Richie one-on-one or even at all.</p><p>Eddie didn’t do any of that, though. In fact, he spent most of December acting as if nothing had changed at all. When they hung out with the group, he still sat next to Richie, still elbowed him in the side and looped their arms together and smiled at him almost apologetically, as if every touch didn’t steep Richie in poisonous shame.</p><p>He’s around a lot less, though. Not to do with Richie; Sonia always tightens her meaty grip on Eddie’s life around the holidays, near the anniversary of Eddie’s father’s death. With Sonia keeping Eddie on a shorter-than-usual leash, Ben headed to Chicago to visit his aunt and uncle, and Stan going back to Michigan to see his aunts and uncles and cousins, the winter break was shaping up to be as lonely as summer was.</p><p>“You gonna get to see your betrothed, Stanley the Manley?” Richie says at lunch on the last day of school. </p><p>“She’s not my <em>betrothed</em>, Richie, but yeah, Anna and I are gonna hang out,” Stan says, blushing. They had been exchanging letters back and forth all term and calling each other once a month. When this had been recounted to the group, Bill had commented offhandedly that Richie and Eddie had maintained similar contact throughout the previous summer, except for instead of once a month Richie called every second day. This much to the embarrassment of Richie, who sorely regretted revealing this practice to Bill during the summer.</p><p>“H-hey, speaking of guh-girlfriends, Eddie,” Bill says, and Richie’s stomach twists uncomfortably. “I ah-asked out Rosa Coleman from history y-yesterday, and sh-she said she would only g-go out with me if I brought a f-friend for her friend. Morgan, s-something like that. The blonde g-girl she’s always with. So,” he nudges Eddie, “wh-whadaya say? Double d-date sometime o-over the break?”</p><p>Eddie’s wide eyes dart to Richie, and Richie looks away.</p><p>“I, uh —” Eddie says nervously. “I can’t, Bill, sorry, my mom…” He trails off, and they all know what he means.</p><p>Richie feels sick with the indigestible combination of guilt and relief. He’s going to have to get used to the idea of Eddie dating someone else, eventually, but he’s still deep in the well of his own emotions and the thought of Eddie with some girl, recounting the ridiculous story of his stupid faggot friend who was in <em>love</em> with him while the girl throws her perfect blonde head back in laughter… it’s too much. He leaves the lunch table early, ignoring Eddie’s confused gaze.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Christmas at the Toziers’ is a quiet affair, for the most part, with no close family in the area. Richie tires quickly of spending time with his parents, but he’s pretty much house-bound, windows ringed in frost and snow piling at the doorstep. His available friend count is reduced to three, though Mike, being homeschooled, didn’t have a proper break and Richie had been trying to avoid Bill lest he invite Richie on a dreaded double-date and compel him to come out just to avoid being complicit in Bill’s awkward flirtations.</p><p>Fortunately, Beverly is still in town. Richie calls her one day and begs her to let him come over, delivers a rousing monologue on the subject. She concedes after the fourteenth consecutive minute of Richie’s soliloquy and Richie makes it to her house in record time.</p><p>They sit on Bev’s porch and smoke, since her aunt is the chillest person in Derry. Richie is immensely jealous, and he occasionally offsets this jealousy by taking advantage of Bev’s stash of cigarettes and sometimes weed.</p><p>He’s barely lit his cigarette when Bev says bluntly, “Okay, time to tell me why you and Eddie are being so weird lately.”</p><p>Richie splutters. “What?” he chokes out between coughs. </p><p>Bev just looks at him with a steady, expectant eye. </p><p>Richie laughs in nervous disbelief. “What, Ben hasn’t told you yet?” He feels an unexpected rush of gratitude for Ben, though he’s now wishing Ben was a little less loyal so Richie could avoid this presumptively mortifying conversation.</p><p>Wrong thing to say. Bev’s glare turns murderous. “I’m sorry, you told <em>Ben </em>and not me?”</p><p>“No, I didn’t —” Richie throws his hands up in a surrender. “I didn’t tell him, he fucking — I dunno, he guessed or something! Not about what happened with Eddie, but other… things… somewhat related.” He finishes lamely.</p><p>“So what happened with Eddie, then?”</p><p>“What makes you think anything happened with Eddie anyways, what the fuck!”</p><p>Beverly raises an eyebrow. “Richie, things have been weird between you guys for the past month. You’ve been friends since kindergarten and suddenly you’re both being awkward around each other for no good reason? Come on.”</p><p>When Bev catches the scent, it’s nearly impossible to avoid her finding out the inevitable truth. Richie sighs and buries his head in his hands, smoldering cigarette still dangling from his fingers. Once his voice is sufficiently muffled, he says miserably, “I kissed Eddie on the cheek last month and he basically ran away. Not that I fucking blame him.” He should probably stop there, but he’s never been good at shutting his mouth once he got talking. “I kissed him on the cheek, but Bev, I wanted to do so much worse. I want him so much it feels like it’s fucking suffocating me.” He’s embarrassed to hear the words come out so desperate.</p><p>Bev listens to this emotional outpouring patiently. “Oh, Richie…” she hums sympathetically. “It’s normal, you know. The wanting. Just because it’s not for a girl doesn’t make it any less normal. And as for Eddie… give him time, okay? He’s fighting against his mother’s influence right now, trying to figure out where he begins and she ends.” She sighs, taking another pull from her cigarette. The smoke curls and floats in the frigid air. “It’s hard, I get that. With my dad, it was hard to figure out what I wanted, who I was. Separate myself from the memory of my mom that he wanted me to be.”</p><p>She rarely talks about her father. Richie feels touched to be on the receiving end of some vulnerability. He uncovers his face, finally, and takes a breath of burning smoke.</p><p>Bev hesitates, and then says, “I think Eddie is… not interested in girls.”</p><p>“How do you know?”</p><p>“I don’t know, I just think,” she says.</p><p>Richie wants to ask if she ever thought the same about him, if he’s projecting something that tips people off, but he doesn’t. He recalls Bowers screaming at him in the arcade, calling him a faggot; Ben’s kind expression, his eyes gentle and knowing. He thinks he already knows the answer. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Winter break passes for Richie in an endless stretch of naps and video games and blasting music so loudly he can’t hear his own thoughts. He’s actually looking forward to school starting up again just for the consistency of seeing his friends daily. It’s even worse than summer break was, in some ways, because he doesn’t call Eddie at all.</p><p>A few days before school starts, Eddie shows up on Richie’s front step. </p><p>Maggie wakes Richie up from an afternoon nap on the couch, and as he drags a bleary hand over his face, there’s Eddie standing in the foyer, pink-cheeked from the cold and bundled up in puffy layers. Before Richie can even open his mouth, Eddie says, “I got away from my mom and I have the whole afternoon free and I wanna be outside. Let’s go play in the snow.”</p><p>His use of the word <em>play </em>makes Richie feel five years old instead of fifteen, but he grabs his jacket and hat and follows Eddie out the door, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.</p><p>They trek to the Barrens, jumping over fallen snow-encrusted branches and leaving big, crunchy footprints in the snow. Richie gets all sweaty under his layers, and Eddie complains the whole time as if this were not his own idea.</p><p>“— I mean why is everything so much harder in the snow like just walking becomes fifty times more difficult and if we fell or fainted or got knocked out somehow there’s no trails or anything and the next snowfall would cover our bodies and they wouldn’t even <em>find </em>us until it melted isn’t that fucked up Rich are you even <em>listening </em>to me —”</p><p>Richie had stopped walking on account of his nose running. It had been running for the last ten minutes, but he hadn’t wanted to interrupt Eddie’s diatribe until it was absolutely necessary.</p><p>“Sorry, Eds, my nose,” he says, and swipes his sleeve under his nose.</p><p>Eddie takes one look at the silvery streak of mucus adorning Richie’s jacket sleeve and flips out. “That’s so fucking <em>disgusting</em>, Richie, what the fuck,” he says, degloving and pulling a neatly folded tissue from his pocket.</p><p>Richie wipes his nose gratefully, though this just seems to irritate Eddie further. “<em>Blow</em>, dipshit,” he says.</p><p>“I can think of better things to blow,” Richie says without thinking. He feels his face color instantly, and sees it mirrored in Eddie’s own reddening cheeks. They each look away from the other, Richie staring at the snowy tree-tops and Eddie at the churned snow beneath their feet.</p><p>Richie can’t handle tension for any prolonged amount of time, so when Eddie turns to continue walking, Richie stuffs a handful of snow down Eddie’s parka, making him shriek.</p><p>Eddie whirls around, fury in his eyes. “Oh, you’ll pay for that one, Trashmouth.”</p><p>He tries to retaliate with a snowball, but the snow is too fresh and fluffy to form a proper sphere so he just ends up tossing a sparkling cloud of snow in Richie’s general direction. This devolves quickly into a snow war, both of them flinging handfuls of powder at one another and Richie’s honking laughter lighting up the icy air.</p><p>Eventually Eddie tackles Richie into the snow, both of them pink-nosed and damp. Richie’s glasses are spotted with droplets of melted snow, fogging up with each exhausted puff of breath. They lay side-by-side in the pillowy snow, staring up into the stark white sky, breathing. </p><p>“Richie,” Eddie says finally. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>“For what? What do you have to be sorry about? If anything, Eds, I’m the one —”</p><p>“Okay, shut up for a second, I have things I need to say and if I don’t say it all at once I might not say it at all.”</p><p>Richie’s heart picks up, but he stays quiet. A feat in itself, as far as Richie’s concerned.</p><p>“Thank you,” Eddie sighs. “Rich, I — I owe you an apology. For what happened last month. I didn’t… I didn’t realize what I was feeling, for a long time. I always knew that something was different about me, but I thought the reason I hadn’t, y’know, felt <em>that </em>way about someone yet is because my mom had been keeping me so sheltered. And — and it feels like, lately, that’s all anyone can talk about, like, girls and dating and stuff.”</p><p>“YEAH,” Richie yells, forgetting his promise to listen in silence.</p><p>Eddie quiets him with a look. “Sorry,” says Richie, “go on, please.”</p><p>“Anyways,” Eddie says. “My mom says that homosexuals get AIDS because they’re doing dirty things, wrong things. Do dirty things and get dirty diseases, she says. She told me they were spreading it, and that we couldn’t go to big cities because the homosexuals were infecting every surface. And I believed her, Richie.”</p><p>Richie doesn’t look over, just keeps his eyes on the wide expanse of sky. For some reason, he feels like this delicate, intimate balance would shatter irreparably if he were to just turn his head to look at Eddie. He could be wrong, though. He’s always been afraid of that, the looking. </p><p>Eddie takes a shuddering breath. “That night, when we were at your house, you… you kissed my cheek and I — I wanted it, I was so afraid and I finally realized what I was feeling and why I felt funny every time my mom brought up AIDS or when —” he’s getting worked up now, Richie can hear his breath speeding up, “— or when that fucking clown looked at me with a diseased mouth and hands and offered to touch me <em>there</em>.</p><p>“I — I’m gay. I’m gay, Richie,” he chokes out.</p><p>Richie’s throat is dry. Eddie is the bravest person he knows. He said it. He said the very thing that Richie could hardly bear to admit to himself, even in his own thoughts. </p><p>“Me too,” Richie says, voice raspy. </p><p>Without looking, Eddie reaches over and takes his hand, mitten in mitten. “I like you, Richie. I love you, too; I always knew that I loved you, since I was, like, six years old, because we’re best friends, but I’m realizing now that I also <em>like</em> you.”</p><p>Richie feels overwhelmed. “I’ve loved you since I was six,” he says, “and I’ve liked you since I was twelve.”</p><p>Eddie sits up and looks down at Richie, still lying warm in the snow. “Twelve? Seriously?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie says helplessly. Eddie still has a little bit of that open, anxious expression that he had that night at Richie’s house, but his cheeks are pink-warm and he’s gripping Richie’s hand like a lifeline. “Yeah, you were so cute, and — and more-than-cute, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop looking at you. I carved our initials into the Kissing Bridge, that’s how far gone I was.”</p><p>Eddie’s eyes are saucer-plates, and he squeezes Richie’s mittened hand.</p><p>“I want to try,” Eddie says determinedly, and Richie feels dizzy. “I want to try with you. I can’t promise anything and we’ll have to go slow, but I want to be with you. If — only if you want to, too.”</p><p>“Yes,” Richie says quickly, “Eddie, yes, please.” I need to go slow too, he doesn’t say. I’m so scared, he doesn’t say.</p><p>Eddie looks at Richie, and he looks back. </p><p>After a beat of silence, Eddie says, “Well?”</p><p>“Well what?” Richie says.</p><p>“Are you gonna kiss me or not?”</p><p>Richie sits up. “Okay,” he says, and then laughs nervously. He doesn’t make a move, just stares at Eddie like a deer in the headlights.</p><p>“For God’s sake,” Eddie says, and leans in.</p><p>Their lips press tentatively, close-mouthed and tender. Richie feels it zing down to his toes.</p><p>Eddie smiles at him when they break apart. “We should get back before it gets dark.” </p><p>He ends up having to haul Richie up from his sunken place in the snow, as Richie finds his knees suddenly unwilling to hold his own body up. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Richie spends the next few months thinking of little else but Eddie and their new relationship (?!). In essence, they resume their frequent one-on-one hang-outs just as they used to last year and before, but now Richie gets to look and touch and Eddie looks and touches back. It’s slow-going and awkward and more intense than anything Richie has experienced in his fifteen (nearly sixteen!) years of life.</p><p>For a long time, Richie had thought if only Eddie reciprocated, if Richie were allowed to touch, he’d be on Eddie in an instant, but the reality is that Richie is often acutely mortified at his own feelings to the point that it paralyzes him. He’s so used to denying himself that he’s easily overwhelmed — kissing Eddie feels like a wildfire and suddenly he’s shaking and Eddie needs to rub his back soothingly. We can take our time, Rich, he says. There’s no rush.</p><p>Eddie understands more than anyone. They never hang out at his house anymore, though they used to when they were nothing more than friends. Eddie mentions offhandedly that his mom has started being more strict about him having friends over, but there’s guilt in his expression and Richie doesn’t pry. He gets it, God knows he does. </p><p>School is hard, since they’ve both agreed to not tell their friends yet. Just until they have a handle on it, this tentative thing that’s growing between them. Eddie says that they should just act normal, which is incredibly difficult to parse for Richie, who hasn’t acted in any sort of approximation of <em>normal </em>in front of Eddie in years. </p><p>Richie’s sixteenth birthday comes in March. Eddie can only justify three hours’ worth of time to his mother, so they do a Losers’ Club party at the Toziers’ from six to nine, which is kind of lame, but Richie’s fine with it since it paves the way for a multitude of sixty-nine jokes. (And because Eddie gets to be there. To save face, Richie’s pretending that the potential for chucks is the main reason he’s accepting of the less-than-ideal timeframe.) They play stupid boardgames and Twister and Richie manages to sneak into the bathroom with Eddie and persuade him to push Richie up against the door and kiss him stupid. It’s the best birthday he’s had in years.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Richie and Eddie’s legs are entangled under a scratched-up library table as Eddie works on his math homework. Richie absently runs his fingers over the names and letters carved into the weathered wood, some barely scratched on and some deep and reinforced with pen. He wonders how many of these summed initials belong to a boy and a boy, or a girl and a girl. Probably not many, but he guesses not many people assume the R + E on the Kissing Bridge belongs to two boys, either. </p><p>He’s contemplating this when Eddie says out of the blue, “You should come to my house tomorrow. We can watch a movie or something.” </p><p>“What about… what about your mom?” Richie says carefully. They never go to Eddie’s house. His mother’s presence is a powerfully oppressive force, guilt-inducing for Eddie.</p><p>“It’s my house, too,” says Eddie, who looks as if he’s trying to convince himself moreso than Richie. “I’m allowed to have my boyfriend at my house.” He says this very quietly. </p><p>To Richie’s utter embarrassment, he feels himself tearing up in the middle of the library. He tries his best to hide this, but Eddie notices (because of course he does) and smacks Richie on the arm. “You idiot,” he says.</p><p>“Sorry,” Richie says thickly, “I was just thinking about how hard it’s gonna be to break it to Mrs. K that it’s over between us. I’m sorry, I’ll say, but I have a boyfriend now. No hard feelings.” </p><p>Eddie rolls his eyes, but under the table he rubs his leg against Richie’s in a way that makes Richie think he’s probably not too annoyed. </p><p><br/>
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</p><p>On Thursday, Richie’s at the Kaspbraks’ door soaked in sweat and cologne both. Eddie looks soft when he opens the door, old worn t-shirt and ruffled hair, and Richie’s stomach gets set to tumble-dry. Sonia’s in the living room, having taken up her usual mantle as a sedentary mass on the recliner, watching a soap opera on their little tube TV.</p><p>“Mom,” Eddie says. “Richie’s here. You said we could watch TV. Please.”</p><p>He looks pointedly at his mom, and then at Richie.</p><p>“Please, Mrs. K,” Richie adds. “Did I mention you’re looking exceptionally ravishing tonight?” He rolls the ‘r’ in ‘ravishing’.</p><p>Eddie and Sonia fix Richie with twin glares. Richie shrugs, having genuinely thought this might help.</p><p>After a pause to sufficiently shame Richie, Sonia rises laboriously from the recliner. She gives Richie a disapproving once-over as she trundles out of the living room. “I’ll be upstairs with my novel,” she says. “I want this boy gone by ten, Eddie-bear. It’s a school night.”</p><p>Richie gives her a wink as she passes, and Eddie tugs sharply on his arm. “Yes, mommy,” Eddie says.</p><p>They stand stock-still listening to Sonia heave herself up the narrow stairway. Eddie’s grip on Richie’s wrist is sending shock-waves up his arm, and he staves off a shiver. </p><p>When they hear Sonia’s bedroom door close, Richie turns to Eddie and pinches both of his cheeks. “Oooh, <em>Eddie-bear</em>, why don’t you ever call me ‘mommy’ in the bedroom?” (This despite the fact that they hadn’t done more in the bedroom than some awkward wet kissing on Richie’s twin bed last week.)</p><p>“Shut up, dickwad,” Eddie hisses, shoving Richie’s hands off. “This is why my mom hates you.”</p><p>“Oh, Eddie, your mom definitely doesn’t hate me, I got the hickies to prove it.”</p><p>Eddie pushes him onto the couch. “Say that again and she’ll be the only person you get a hickey from.”</p><p>“So that’s on the table if I shut up, then?” Richie says, a little too eagerly. “Duly noted, Edwardo.”</p><p>The Kaspbraks have a truly dismal movie collection, since Sonia deems anything actually enjoyable by Richie’s standards as ‘inappropriate’, so they just flip around and watch whatever’s on TV. Eddie’s tense at first, but as the night goes on he wraps his arms around Richie and holds him close.</p><p>They used to snuggle as kids, when things like that didn’t have earth-shattering connotations. Curled up on the smelly vinyl mats in kindergarten, tucked together in the back of Maggie’s car. The closeness has always been what Richie craved, even when they got to their early teens and everything got complicated.</p><p>Eddie gets increasingly quieter as Richie keeps up a steady stream of commentary. Richie’s starting to wonder if he’s really annoying Eddie, but when he turns to make another inane comment Eddie is on him immediately. Richie cuts off his own sentence with a muffled noise of surprise as Eddie leads him into a fierce kiss. </p><p>Eddie’s mouth is soft and slick and Richie has no idea what he’s doing but he’s dizzy with want. Eddie kisses down Richie’s acne-spotted jaw and Richie groans involuntarily.</p><p>“God, you’re so loud, Richie,” Eddie says breathlessly. “My mom is just upstairs.”</p><p>Now Richie lets out an exaggerated moan. “Ohhh, talk about your mom more, baby, you know how that gets me hot.”</p><p>Eddie slaps his arm and pulls him in for another kiss just to shut him up.</p><p>They’re just getting into a rhythm and Richie is on fire all over when a piercing wail sounds from the Kaspbraks’ living room doorway.</p><p>They jolt apart as the lights flip on, soft haze of pleasure thrown into animal fear by the harsh brightness. Richie’s facing away from the door, but Eddie’s thoroughly horrified expression and the way his hands clamp down on Richie’s shoulders tells Richie exactly who it is. Adrenaline floods Richie’s body, so sharp and sudden the edges of his vision go wobbly.</p><p>“Get away from him, you — you faggot! You pervert!” Sonia’s in front of them now, standing over them entwined on the yellowed floral couch.</p><p>Eddie’s dark eyes are round and panicked, his face that was only just flushed and soft pressed to Richie’s own is now pale and sickly with fear. “Mommy, no, please —”</p><p>“Eddie, sweetheart, how long has this boy been molesting you?” Sonia asks, almost hysterically.</p><p>Eddie’s voice raises up a few notches, watery and upset. “He’s not — he’s not mo— he’s not doing that, we were just fooling around, it’s not —”</p><p>“Oh, Eddie-bear, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she wails. “My baby, brainwashed by a queer. Mommy will make sure that this nasty boy will never be able to hurt you again.” </p><p>Eddie’s crying now, arguing through tears, but everything’s starting to fade out for Richie. His panic is thick as a fog; he can hear his own rushing heartbeat in his ears and thinks, vaguely, that he might puke.</p><p>Sonia grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him to his feet. Richie’s knees almost buckle underneath him, dark spots swim in his vision.</p><p>“Ma, no, let him go,” Eddie cries.</p><p>“Go upstairs, Eddie,” Sonia says.</p><p>“No, no,” Eddie sobs, “let him go please this is between you and me Richie had nothing to do with it ma <em>please</em>—”</p><p>“Upstairs, Edward Kaspbrak! NOW!” </p><p>She doesn’t wait for his response, just tugs Richie down the hall, meaty hand fisted in the neck of his t-shirt. They come to a halt in front of the old plastic landline in their kitchen, and Sonia dials with one stubby manicured finger. The only noises permeating the cheerful yellow kitchen are the tinny ring of the phone, Eddie’s sobs from upstairs, and Richie’s own ragged breathing.</p><p><em>Please don’t be the cops</em>, Richie thinks desperately, <em>please, please.</em></p><p>Whoever’s on the other end must pick up, because Sonia starts speaking angrily. “This is Sonia Kaspbrak. You need to come collect your filthy son from my house immediately. If you aren’t here within five minutes I will contact the authorities.” Click.</p><p>Fuck, fuck, it’s his parents, <em>fuck</em>. Now Richie’s sure he’s going to puke. The kitchen spins around him and his stomach lurches.</p><p>Sonia must see Richie’s face empty of all blood, because the next thing he knows he’s being shoved out onto the porch. He scrambles to vomit into the sparse bushes, eyes and throat burning.</p><p>After the contents of his stomach have been displaced, he leans back to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. Deliriously, he thinks of how much Eddie would hate that. Sonia’s come out onto the porch and is standing over him, looking disgusted. Richie curls in on himself, dipping his head between his legs and trying not to pass out. God, he’s gonna be in so much trouble, he got Eddie in so much trouble.</p><p>It isn’t long until the Toziers’ old Pinto pulls up outside the Kaspbraks’ illuminated residence. Maggie Tozier strides up the front walk, jacket and sweatpants pulled on over her fuzzy pink robe. Richie normally walks home from Eddie’s or otherwise sleeps over, so she clearly wasn’t expecting to have to come get her son. It’s an almost comical sight, his usually classy and put-together mother in such a slipshod outfit, but Richie can’t bring himself to feel anything but intense, crashing relief.</p><p>She hurries up the yard, looking openly worried in a way he hasn’t seen from his mother in years. She reaches out to Richie as she approaches, and he realizes belatedly that he’s shaking badly.</p><p>“Mom,” Richie whimpers, letting her smooth a hand over his hair.</p><p>“Are you aware,” Sonia Kaspbrak booms from the porch, “that your son is a faggot?”</p><p>“Go wait in the car, Richard,” Maggie says, rubbing his shoulder. </p><p>Richie doesn’t look back, doesn’t think twice, just retreats as fast as he can to the haven of the old car. Even with the door closed, he can hear Sonia’s shrill voice from where she’s screeching at his mother.</p><p>“That boy is a filthy perverted queer, and he was molesting my son! I caught him on the couch taking advantage of my Eddie!”</p><p>“Sonia, please, let me get him home, we can talk ab—”</p><p>“I simply cannot let him roam free in good conscience! Who knows how many other boys he’ll violate if he’s allowed to continue like this?” </p><p>“Richard is a good kid, it’s late, I’m sorry, I’ll have Wentworth give you a call tomorrow. If you’ll excuse me, I have to take my son home.”</p><p>“I will take this to the authorities if necessary! Perversions like his need to be dealt with!” Sonia screams at Maggie’s retreating back. </p><p>Richie is still shaking when Maggie slams the driver’s side door. She’s silent as she pulls the car out into the street, leaving behind the ominous monolith of Sonia Kaspbrak in sharp relief against the illuminated house.</p><p>The drive home is only two minutes, but the tension charging the stale car air is too much for Richie to bear. His ears are still ringing from Sonia’s tirade and his thoughts are all jumbled and he still feels sick to his stomach from the gut-wrenching cocktail of shame and guilt and panic. This isn’t how he wanted his mom to find out, his parents, since he’s sure she’ll tell his dad everything. He can feel himself getting worked up, but he needs to take the stand for his own defense, there’s no time to think and there’s only one thought that’s crystal clear in his reeling mind.</p><p>“I’m in love with him,” Richie says. </p><p>And promptly bursts into tears.</p><p>“Oh, Christ, Richie,” Maggie swears softly as she pulls to the side of the sleepy residential street. </p><p>Richie is newly sixteen but he still cries like a little kid. None of the breathy weeping or silent tears that he’s seen in movies, only the sick braying sobs of a child. He cries and cries and cries and Maggie rubs his back through it.</p><p>“Sweetheart,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Richard. I’m so sorry that happened.” </p><p>He cries until he runs out of tears, his cheeks salt-sticky. Maggie strokes a hand through his mussed hair and wordlessly pulls the car back on the road. The intermittent streetlamps send muted golden light streaking across Maggie’s bloodless knuckles where she’s gripping the steering wheel.</p><p>When they get back to their house, Wentworth is sitting in his armchair in the living room. He’s holding a novel, though his eyes are glazed in a way that suggests he’s not taking in any of the words, clad in his robe and slippers. Guilt coils in Richie’s gut.</p><p>Went looks up concernedly when they come in, opening his mouth to speak but Maggie just holds a hand up and he says nothing. </p><p>Maggie immediately sends Richie upstairs to his bedroom. He changes into pajamas and gets into bed, exhausted. His mom comes up a few minutes later with a washcloth and a cup of water, which he guzzles gratefully. She insists on washing his face for him like she did when he was little, gently scrubbing the cloth over his tear-stained cheeks.</p><p>“Don’t worry about school tomorrow,” she says quietly. “We’ll sort something out. Sleep as long as you need.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>‘As long as he needs’ ends up being almost twelve hours total. He finally meanders downstairs around noon, hoping that his parents had left for work so he could have the house to himself. Shockingly, he enters the kitchen to find both Wentworth and Maggie at the dining room table with a full breakfast spread out, reading the paper.</p><p>He’s surprised to see his dad. The first thing out of Richie’s mouth is, “Don’t you have work?”</p><p>Wentworth opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Finally, in a stilted voice, “I cancelled my patients today.” </p><p>More silence. Richie just stands there, getting more nervous by the second. The Toziers have never been a very talkative or demonstrative family, when it comes to emotional matters. Richie got pretty much nothing in the way of the birds and the bees talk, just a copy of a book called <em>Changing Bodies, Changing Lives</em> left on his bed at age twelve that he’d stuffed in the back of his sock drawer and not looked at since. </p><p>After a prolonged silence, Maggie makes an exasperated noise. “Went, are you gonna speak or should I?”</p><p>Went takes a breath, shaking himself slightly. “Son, please have a seat. We need to talk to you.”</p><p>Richie sits slowly, feeling ambushed. He’s fucking starving, though, so he grabs a plate and starts piling on scrambled eggs and toast.</p><p>Went clears his throat. “Can eating wait one minute?” he says, pained. </p><p>Richie stops abruptly, putting down the utensils with a clatter and leaning back in his seat. He snags a triangle of toast anyways.</p><p>“Richard,” Went starts, “your mother and I need you to know that we love you no matter what.”</p><p>Richie chews on his toast. “But?” he says apprehensively. </p><p>“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Maggie says absently. And then, “But nothing. We love you, and we’re so, so sorry about what happened last night.” </p><p>“That Sonia Kaspbrak is a real…” Went trails off angrily, seeming to get a hold of himself. “I’m going to speak with her today and give her a real piece of my mind. Let her know exactly what I think about her and her parenting methods.” </p><p>Richie’s stomach twists once, and then releases to a soft, jelly-like feeling. He sags in his chair. “Um, thanks. I love you guys, too. You don’t have to call her, you know.”</p><p>“Oh, but I will,” Went says darkly. </p><p>The rest of breakfast passes with minimal emotional vulnerability, just how Richie likes it. Richie is so grateful he could cry (again), but instead he just eats two plates of food and takes a nap on the couch.</p><p>When he wakes up, he can hear his dad in the kitchen speaking in a low tone.</p><p>“What I talk to my son about is my business, and you have no right to— Yes, yes, I understand, but there’s no need to involve— Well, that’s just completely uncalled for. Richard would have never done anything that Ed— See, if I can’t speak for your child you certainly can’t speak for mine!” Went’s voice is rising slowly as the conversation clearly gets more heated.</p><p>“Now, listen — you can enforce anything you’d like with your boy, but you cannot make judgement calls about mine! Maggie and I have already spoken to him, and we will ensure he continues to be supported and loved unconditionally in this family!” he shouts gruffly. “To be frank with you, Sonia, I truly pity Edward for having such an — such an unstable home environment!” The phone receiver slams down with a sharp clack.</p><p>Considering that Wentworth was generally a very jovial and well-contained man, this was quite the departure. </p><p>Richie can hear his father approaching the living room. He briefly considers pretending to still be asleep, but before he can make a definitive choice, Went strides in, huffing and running a frustrated hand through his greying hair. When he sees Richie looking up at him from his place stretched out on the couch, he stops abruptly. </p><p>“That woman, I swear…”</p><p>Richie nods sympathetically, as if Went was talking about a particularly difficult patient and not his son’s boyfriend’s mother who harassed them last night. (And oof, if he thinks about that one for too long, he might combust from sheer <em>what-the-fuck</em>ness.)</p><p>There’s a moment of awkward silence, in which Went looks at Richie in such a way that Richie thinks for an unnerved second that his dad is gonna try to have a heart-to-heart or hug him or something. Instead, Went deflates slightly, collapsing in his old armchair.</p><p>He tosses the remote to Richie. “It’s been awhile since we just sat here and watched TV together,” he says.</p><p>This is true, though even when they did it usually involved Richie drifting in and out of consciousness on the couch to the lulling sounds of <em>M*A*S*H </em>or <em>The Waltons</em>. </p><p>They spend the rest of the afternoon channel-surfing, courtesy of Richie, between <em>MTV </em>and <em>The Simpsons</em>. For Went’s part, he only dozes off once or twice, and doesn’t make nearly as big a stink about the choice of programming as Richie is wont to do when the roles are reversed. Maggie weaves in and out, bringing them both dinner in front of the TV, which is an extremely rare treat in the Tozier household.</p><p>“Do you remember,” Went says sometime in the evening between reruns of <em>Night Court</em>. “When you were little, maybe six or seven, you used to love watching TV with your mother and I. <em>Magnum P.I.</em>, that was our show. You were such a rambunctious child, but when we would watch, you would sit here in relative silence for an hour. At the time, that was like a miracle,” he says fondly.</p><p>“Jesus, what happened to your taste? <em>Magnum P.I.</em> fucking ruled.”</p><p>“Ah, that was all your mother. You know how she is about Tom Selleck.”</p><p>“Well, that makes two of us,” Richie says without thinking.</p><p>Wentworth gives a short, surprised chuckle as Richie feels his own face flush. “Richard,” he says, sobering, and oh fuck, Richie can just tell this is gonna turn into a serious thing. “I know I’ve — I’ve not always been the most open with you, but I want to truly apologize if we said or did anything to make you feel like you couldn’t tell us.”</p><p>“Dad,” Richie says, his chest tightening. He really doesn’t have the energy to break down again, and especially not in front of his father.</p><p>“You and Eddie are always welcome here. Make sure he knows that, too. You don’t ever have to worry about — about anything like that happening in this house.”</p><p>“Thanks, dad. Seriously,” Richie says thickly.</p><p>Maggie pokes her head into the living room, and for a second Richie is afraid she’ll start piling on too and then he’ll really start crying.</p><p>Instead, she says, “Were you guys talking about Tom Selleck?”</p><p>Went just shakes his head. “Outnumbered in my own house, who would’ve thought.”</p><p><br/>
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<br/>
</p><p>School somehow becomes somewhere Richie actually looks forward to going, because it’s the only place he can see Eddie. On Monday morning, Richie makes his way to Eddie’s locker, praying with every jittery step that Eddie is at school and hasn’t been transferred to fucking Nantucket or something.</p><p>Eddie’s at his locker, looking up at Richie’s feverish approach. Richie knows the sick relief on Eddie’s face is mirrored on his own, and he wordlessly pulls Eddie into a squeezing hug.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Eddie says as soon as they break apart. “God, Rich, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Richie shakes his head so hard his glasses slip down his nose. “Eddie, no, you have nothing to be sorry for.”</p><p>“My mom freaked out on me,” Eddie says, wringing his hands. “She said I was forbidden to see you, or any of my friends until I <em>shape up</em>.”</p><p>“The fuck? What does that mean?”</p><p>“She says she won’t tell anyone what happened, acts like it’s for <em>my </em>benefit when it’s clearly for <em>her </em>image. I have to go to the church all day on the weekends for bible study. It’s a fucking joke, she barely even goes to church, she just wants to keep me away from you guys,” he says miserably.</p><p>“Jeez, Eds…”</p><p>Eddie just shrugs, his face twisted up unhappily. “Anyways, how about your parents? My mom got a call from your dad on Friday, she seemed really pissed after. Were they… is everything okay?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie says guiltily, “yeah, my folks were really chill about it. They even said you could come to ours whenever, and we don’t have to worry about — about that.” Though he has a sinking feeling that that won’t be happening any time soon. </p><p>Eddie smiles, but his eyes are wide and sad. “That’s great, Rich. Maybe eventually, once my mom’s lightened up. As of now I’m getting dropped off and picked up directly from school, and she’s gonna call the front office like three times a day so she knows I’m not skipping out.”</p><p>Fuck, Richie thinks. “Fuck,” he says.</p><p>“Yeah, tell me about it. I understand if you — if that’s too much for you, right now.”</p><p>“What — are you kidding, Eds? No, no, no way, this is like, totally minor.” Richie’s trying to school his voice into something remotely calm, which just makes him sound kind of hysterical. “Naught but a minor inconvenience. We can kiss under the lunch table or something.”</p><p>Eddie laughs waterily. “I’ve gotta get to class. I, uh — love you, Richie.” </p><p>“Love you too, Eds.” Cue inner freakout. “See you at lunch.”</p><p>Richie has to take a moment at his own locker to breathe unsteadily. For some reason he almost feels like he’s going to puke again, like last week into the Kaspbraks’ thin shrubbery, a complete emotional and gastrointestinal upheaval. He doesn’t, in the end; just breathes in the old-food-and-B.O. scent of his locker (which, at this point, is less stomach-turning than the potency of his own feelings) until the bell rings for class.</p><p><br/>
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<br/>
</p><p>The first thing Stan does when he arrives at their lunch table is slam his tray down and point menacingly between Richie and Eddie. “Okay, will one of you tell me what the fuck is going on? You guys have been so weird for the past few months, and then you both just aren’t at school on Friday? And I had to hear from Jennifer Stephenson that she saw <em>your </em>mom,” he brandishes a plastic fork at Eddie, “throwing <em>you</em>,” the fork turns on Richie, “out of Eddie’s house on Thursday night.”</p><p>Ugh, Richie had forgotten about the Stephensons, next door neighbours to the Kaspbraks and almost as notoriously nosey as Sonia Kaspbrak herself. There had been so many feuds between the matriarchs of each house over the years that Eddie and Jennifer had a dislike of each other almost on principle, despite the fact that they both openly acknowledged that their mothers were, to use Richie’s phrase of choice, batshit crazy.</p><p>“What!” Bev shrieks. “Stan, why didn’t you say anything to us last week?”</p><p>“I wasn’t even sure it was anything more than a rumor, but the looks on their faces tell me it is,” Stan says levelly.</p><p>Richie glances over at Eddie, whose face is powder-white. The rest of the group is staring at them expectantly.</p><p>He takes a breath. “Uh, the thing is —”</p><p>“Richie and I are dating,” Eddie says abruptly.</p><p>There’s a moment of shocked silence.</p><p>“WHAT,” Bill squeaks, “SERIOUSLY?” He doesn’t even stutter.</p><p>Bev throws her arms around Eddie and squeezes, hollering joyfully in his ear. Ben just gives Richie a smile and a pat on the back. Stan looks quietly pleased.</p><p>“Oh my god, you guys,” Bev says happily.</p><p>“W-wait, so wh-what happened on Thursday?” Bill asks.</p><p>Eddie speaks up, his voice reedy. “My mom walked in on me and Richie… uh, kissing and she freaked out. Called Richie’s parents and kicked him out.”</p><p>Everyone’s mouths fall open. </p><p>“Is everything okay?” Ben asks concernedly. “How did your parents react, Richie?” </p><p>“Better than Eddie’s mom, that’s for sure.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m pretty much confined to school, home, and church for now,” Eddie says dejectedly. “I’m still allowed to go to track with you, Ben, but only because I held the whole deprived-of-physical-activity-due-to-fake-asthma-for-thirteen-years thing above her head.” </p><p>Aside, Bill nudges Richie and says, “Wh-what the fuck, man, we t-t-talked on the phone yesterd-day. You said you w-were sick on Friday.” </p><p>“It wasn’t only my story to tell, Billy,” Richie says with a shrug. This is only half true, the other half being that Bill had woken Richie up with his call on Sunday and thus Richie had neither the wherewithal nor the cognitive awareness to have that conversation with Bill, who called to ramble cheerfully about his new high score in <em>Sonic the Hedgehog</em>.</p><p>“Thanks for telling us, guys,” Stan says solemnly. “If anyone gives you any shit, let one of us know. Losers gotta stick together.” </p><p>This is as close to a blessing as one could get from Stan. Richie’s chest feels substantially lighter, and it lasts throughout the rest of the day. </p><p><br/>
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<br/>
</p><p>The next few weeks are painful. Richie barely gets to see Eddie at all, it’s like they’ve regressed back to last summer, except Richie isn’t even allowed to regale him with dirty jokes over the phone. </p><p>Sonia is on Eddie constantly, only letting him out of her sight for his classes. She even starts going to his track practices, not just the big meets and races like she used to. Richie only learns this unfortunate fact when he shows up to a practice hoping to get a few stolen minutes with Eddie in those little shorts only to see the unfortunate hulking form of Mrs. Kaspbrak in the stands. </p><p>Richie misses him so much it feels like a bodily ache.</p><p>At school, Ben ambushes Richie at his locker between second and third period and pulls him into an empty classroom. With a shock, he sees that Eddie is already there, sitting on a desk.</p><p>Richie can’t help it. He saunters right up between Eddie’s legs and kisses both of Eddie’s cheeks noisily. “Right, what's all this, then?” he says.</p><p>Eddie groans. “I haven’t seen you since last week and the first thing you do is the British Guy?”</p><p>“Only ‘cause I know it gets you hot.”</p><p>“Beep fucking beep, Richie,” Eddie says. “Ben has an idea, we wanted to tell you.”</p><p>Richie drapes a dramatic arm over his forehead and dons a Southern drawl. “Oh mah word, ah’m swoonin’. Two han’some fellas all to mahself.”</p><p>Ben looks resignedly embarrassed. Eddie just rolls his eyes.</p><p>Ben clears his throat. “Um, so, our idea is — since Eddie and I have English together this semester, we think we can convince Mrs. K to let us go to the library a few times a week to study.</p><p>“That’s really cool and all, guys, but one — I don’t have English with you, and B — we can’t make out in a fucking library,” Richie says. </p><p>“Well, uh, you can do that wherever you like, because Eddie doesn’t actually have to be in the library,” Ben says.</p><p>Turns out Ben holds sway over the librarian, an elderly woman who dotes on him and has taken to pinching his cheeks every time he comes in. The very same librarian who, as it turns out, also answers calls from Sonia Kaspbrak to verify that her son is indeed at the library.</p><p>Ben volunteers stocking shelves at the library (<em>Benjamin Hanscom — track athlete, volunteer academic, cute as a puppy with a chiseled bod AND a soft-ass heart, they say no man is perfect but they haven’t met Ben!</em> Richie says in his best radio announcer Voice) and was able to talk the librarian into telling Sonia that Eddie was indeed in and studying with Ben every time she called. Just a little white lie, he tells her, and anyways, it’s in the name of romance! A real Romeo and Juliet, Catherine and Heathcliff situation! </p><p>This convinces her. She thinks Ben’s lovely, well-behaved friend is off getting shakes with some sweet girl. Never makes the connection between the polite young boy and the gangly, loud, bull-in-a-china-shop boy that’s always hooting and hollering in his ear when they’re in here together. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The first day Richie and Eddie get some time together outside of school hours is a monumental occasion for Richie. He brings Eddie to his house after school, and Richie’s mentally planning a way for them to escape to his bedroom unnoticed when Maggie appears from the kitchen. </p><p>Blessedly, she doesn’t act any different, asking them about their school day and Eddie’s track season like usual. Richie’s relieved that she’s not making a big deal about it, but he’s acutely aware that she’s looking at Eddie for the first time as Richie’s <em>boyfriend</em>.</p><p>Despite Richie’s inflated sense of vulnerability, it’s a normal hang-out, for the most part. They loll around and play video games and help Maggie cook. Wentworth comes home for dinner, at which point Richie suffers a mortifying forty-five minute ordeal in which his parents politely ask Eddie typical parent-questions and Eddie politely responds and Richie jiggles his leg throughout the entire thing. </p><p>As soon as the dishes are cleared, Richie drags Eddie up to his bedroom. As soon as he closes the door, he says, “Wanna kiss?”</p><p>Eddie nods, flushed, so Richie puts on a record and they do. It’s all Richie’s wanted to do for the past few weeks, but now he’s almost painfully aware of the last time they did this, when they were cruelly interrupted.</p><p>Eddie keeps shooting anxious glances at Richie’s bedroom door. He breaks off at one point, breathing kind of hard. </p><p>“Eddie,” Richie murmurs. “It’s okay. We’re okay here.”</p><p>“I know, I just — sorry, Rich,” Eddie says, fisting his hands in Richie’s bedspread.</p><p>“No need to be sorry,” Richie says. “I know you’d rather hear me serenade you, anyways.”</p><p>Ignoring Eddie’s vehement protests, he sings along obnoxiously to the Talking Heads and bounces on the bed just to jostle a smile out of him. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The group, minus Eddie, is playing video games at Bill’s on the weekend when Stan says, “So, what’s everyone’s plans for prom?”</p><p>“I th-thought we were just g-gonna go as a group like l-last year,” Bill says. “M-Mike is already my plus-one.”</p><p>“We can still go as a group, but I was hoping to go with Bev,” Ben says shyly.</p><p>Beverly smacks a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, we’re definitely going together. We’ll meet you guys at the dance, but we’re gonna have a total teen prom moment.” </p><p>“What about you and Eddie?” Stan asks quietly, and Richie realizes with a start that he’s talking to him. </p><p>“Uh, honestly, I didn’t think about it,” Richie says awkwardly. </p><p>“You should ask him,” Stan says. “If you want to.”</p><p>Richie fidgets. He does want to, but the idea of showing up to the prom with another boy and being instantly clocked by the majority of their student body is uniquely humiliating. Bowers and his gang are long gone, but Richie can’t think of a world in which Eddie and him won’t still be decked behind the school for the thing that Richie could never hide, not really.</p><p>Stan’s looking at him with solemn, understanding eyes. Abruptly, he turns to the others, playing video games on the couch. “Bill, Mike. What do you think of us three going together?”</p><p>Bill tosses down his controller, looking excited. “Y-yeah, I like that idea! We’ll make sure n-no one b-bothers you and Eddie, R-Rich. Who’s gonna g-give a fuck about two d-dudes going together when there are <em>th-three</em> dudes going t-together?” He slaps Mike’s shoulder. “Wh-whadaya say, Mikey?”</p><p>Mike shrugs easily, grinning. “Works for me.”</p><p>“What, your quote-on-quote girlfriend not coming up for prom, Staniel?” Richie says. In moments of insecurity he was prone to mocking Stan’s long-distance relationship, a fault that Stan graciously tolerated.</p><p>“She’s finishing up her own school year, and anyways, I’ll see her over the summer,” Stan says evenly. And then, “Ask Eddie. He wants to go, and deserves something nice after the year he’s had.”</p><p>“I know, I know,” Richie mumbles. The fact that his friends can see his uncertainty and are stepping up to shield him and Eddie from ridicule feels at once heart-warming and humiliating. Even when they were at their closest during The Worst Summer, he was desperate to keep them from knowing, claiming a fear of clowns to avoid telling them about the incident in the arcade or the taunting masculinity of the Paul Bunyan statue or the huge, debilitating crush on his best friend. He wonders if being known will ever stop being so embarrassing.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Richie shakes his hands out in an effort to abate his jitters as he exits the school with Eddie in tow. Summer is in reach, now, and the air hums with warmth. Richie clears his throat. “Hey, I was thinking, since it’s so nice, we could go on a walk before heading to mine.”</p><p>Eddie agrees, and they make their meandering way down to the forest. He doesn’t seem suspicious of this change of route, their conversation oscillating between talking about school and debating whether a hot dog counts as a sandwich.</p><p>Eddie’s in the middle of a rant on the status of hot dogs as a separate, distinct (and possibly carcinogenic) entity when Richie comes to a stop beside the Kissing Bridge. His heart is beating so loudly that he’s sure Eddie can hear it.</p><p>“— Wait, Rich, where are we going?,” Eddie says, cutting himself off. </p><p>“Eddie,” Richie says, through a dry mouth. “I wanted to show you something.” He takes Eddie’s hand shakily, and Eddie squeezes it in reassurance. Richie gestures wordlessly to the railing of the bridge in front of them.</p><p>“Oh, Richie…” Eddie says reverently, reaching out to the weathered plank with the hand not currently gripped in Richie’s own sweaty palm. He runs his fingers across the rough R + E dug into the wood beside the initials of countless other pairs. </p><p>“Don’t be too flattered, the ‘E’ actually stands for Everyone’s moms,” Richie says, and Eddie laughs wetly.</p><p>“Well, Everyone’s moms are certainly very lucky,” Eddie says softly, still admiring the carved initials. “And for the record, Everyone’s moms feel the same way.”</p><p>Before he can lose his nerve, Richie blurts, “D’you wanna go to prom with me?”</p><p>Eddie looks up at him, wide-eyed, and Richie is reminded sharply of the last time he asked Eddie the same thing, on the night that things fell apart. Fell apart only to be put together in a better, awesomer form, Richie reminds himself. Like a Transformer. Their friendship before being the car, and now being the cool-as-fuck robot titan, of course.</p><p>“Of course I want to go with you, but aren’t you worried about — about what people will say?” Eddie says apprehensively.</p><p>“Oh, that’s taken care of. Stan and Bill and Mike have decided to go as a three-man anti-homophobia brigade, and we’re nothing compared to <em>that </em>freak show.”</p><p>Eddie laughs, but he gets a funny look on his face. “They’re doing that for us? Wow…”</p><p>“Yeah, I know, I already had a mini-crisis about it,” Richie says truthfully. “It’s nice that they’re doing it, but it’s still weird that they know we’re… what we are,” he finishes lamely, shrugging. He still has trouble saying it. He wishes he could spell it out instead of saying it sometimes, <em>gee-ay-why</em>, like a child’s playground rhyme. <em>Eddie and Richie, sitting in a tree, kay-eye-ess-ess-eye-en-gee</em>. </p><p>Eddie doesn’t push him. “Yeah, I’d love to go with you, Richie. I think I can convince my mom to let me go, if I tell her it’s with the group.” And if he conveniently fails to mention Richie’s presence in said group, Richie knows.</p><p>“Yeah?” Richie says.</p><p>“Well, I’ve been following her rules,” Eddie says, “going to bible study and doing my homework and being a real model fucking citizen.”</p><p>“I love you,” Richie says.</p><p>After a perfunctory look around, Eddie gives him a quick, sweet kiss. “I love you, too.”</p><p>Richie leans in to chase Eddie’s lips again, but Eddie gives him a light shove. “Not out here. Let’s go back to your house.” And then they can kiss more, he doesn’t say, but it’s implied. Richie shivers.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>Eddie manages to convince his mom, somehow. Sonia is to drop him off at Ben’s house the night of the prom, where Richie will await to sweep him off his feet. (And onto a bicycle, to be precise. Richie really needs to get his license.) Richie ends up at Ben’s way too early, nerves working up to a lather as he circles Ben’s bedroom restlessly, making idle chatter and ignoring the painfully polite look on Ben’s face that indicates he should vacate the premises whenever possible. Richie’s not completely tone deaf, so when Bev shows up, he does exactly that — goes around to the back of the Hanscoms’ house and sits beside his beat-up bicycle, picking grass and jiggling his leg so hard he starts to annoy himself.</p><p>At long last, Richie hears the telltale rumble of the Kaspbraks’ station wagon pull up outside Ben’s house. He shoots up and tries to dust most of the grass off himself. (There’s a lot. He is extremely nervous.) From the front of the house, Richie can hear Eddie’s faraway voice and then the slamming of a door. The rumble starts up again and Richie barely waits until it’s faded away before hurtling around the side of the house and coming face-to-face with Eddie.</p><p>Eddie jumps when Richie appears. “Jesus fucking Christ, Richie,” he says, clutching his chest like an old lady. “The fuck are you doing? Are those grass stains?”</p><p>Richie had made the decision to pick Eddie up in his usual ratty jeans and t-shirt, a decision that seemed like a good idea when he was uprooting handfuls of grass from the Hanscoms’ backyard in the throes of anxiety but now, seeing Eddie, one he sorely regrets.</p><p>Eddie’s in a suit, clean and pressed, soft hair combed and parted meticulously and tie lying neatly against his chest. Richie must stare too long or possibly tear up a little bit, because Eddie smooths a hand down the front of his starch-white shirt self-consciously. “Um,” he says, “thanks for picking me up.”</p><p>This shakes Richie out of his Eddie-induced reverie, and he says, “Of course, Eds. Wait right there, lemme go get the second best thing you can take a ride on.” He goes to collect his bike before he has to deal with the implications of <em>that </em>and leaves Eddie blushing in the front yard.</p><p>They ride double back to Richie’s house, Eddie’s hands around his waist. Richie can smell his cologne, can feel his breath against his neck, and he prays Eddie doesn’t notice the goosebumps rising on his skin.</p><p>Maggie and Went descend on them as soon as they walk in the door, and Richie leaves Eddie to converse politely with his parents as he bounds upstairs to get ready. Richie’s own suit is a little short around the wrists and ankles and he looks sort of rumpled, but he’s long accepted that he’ll never look as clean and put-together as his boyfriend. His <em>boyfriend</em>. The phrasing still makes him dizzy. Last year at this time, he was agonizing over his feelings for Eddie, and now they’re <em>boyfriends</em>. He pinches his already flushed cheeks and grimaces at himself in the bathroom mirror.</p><p>When Richie comes back downstairs, he deals with several minutes of fussing from his mother while exchanging pink-cheeked glances with Eddie as they both look the other over.</p><p>“Okay, boys,” Maggie says fondly, patting both of them on the shoulders. “We need to get some photos of you two. You both look so handsome.”</p><p>“Mo-om,” Richie whines. </p><p>“Hush, Richard. Eddie’s fine with it, aren’t you, Eddie?”</p><p>Eddie nods, but Maggie hadn’t waited for his response before calling Wentworth over with the camera. They pose for a few photos on their staircase, and Richie is in limbo between being utterly mortified and glad of his parents’ doting. He wants to put a picture of Eddie and him in his room, a real, couples picture.</p><p>“Okay, we’re done embarrassing you now, Richard,” Maggie says with a smile. “Have fun, boys.”</p><p>Wentworth gives Eddie a firm pat on the back. “Have my son back by midnight, alright, champ?”</p><p>Eddie chuckles nervously as Richie groans. “He’s kidding, Eds,” Richie says long-sufferingly. “Bye, guys, don’t wait up.”</p><p>“Bye, Dr. and Mrs. Tozier,” Eddie says.</p><p><br/>
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<br/>
</p><p>They meet the others around the back of the school, where they’re already pounding back alcohol in their teenage finery. When Richie and Eddie round the corner, Bev waves at them, shivering in her slinky dress. She tosses Richie a flask as soon as he’s close enough. “You guys look cute,” she says. “And like you need a drink.”</p><p>“Spot on, Marsh,” Richie says, taking a swig of the flask. (Tequila. Bev knows him so well.)</p><p>They make quick work of the liquor, laughing and shoving each other in the back parking lot. Ben’s cheeks acquire a pink glow, and Bill gets giggly. He links his arms through Stan and Mike’s and tries to get them to do a can-can line, which Mike tries to his best ability and Stan resists, stony-faced.</p><p>Richie hadn’t eaten anything that day for fear of puking it back up in his fit of nerves, so the tequila hits him fast. The gym is already hazy, almost dream-like when they get in, streamers and swirling lights making Richie feel drunker than he probably is. It’s fun to dance with his friends, all of them jumping around in reckless, off-beat abandon to the music. </p><p>As the night goes on, Richie can feel a low burn start in his belly under his too-small suit. He’s strangely thankful for the sweatiness brought on by the vigorous dancing and the overheated gym to conceal the tight heat that he’s trying to tamp down. The alcohol is fuel to the fire, making him bolder and more indulgent to his own errant inclinations. He can feel himself getting closer to Eddie, pressing up against him, looping his arms around Eddie’s shoulders. He wants to touch Eddie so badly, so desperately that he reaches over to loosen the other boy’s tie and undo his top buttons as Eddie watches him steadily. <em>I need to calm down</em>, Richie thinks, but he can’t. It’s embarrassing; he feels like a beacon, like everyone in the sweaty, pulsating gym can feel his desires irradiating out from his body. </p><p>He breaks away from the group and grabs Bev by the wrist, gesturing to the back door with a nod of his head. “Smoke break?” he says, but his words evaporate like steam in the deafening beat of TLC. </p><p>They prop the door open with one of Richie’s shoes, and Bev must see Richie’s distress because she doesn’t even bitch at him for mooching off her Marlboros like she usually would.</p><p>“You good, babe?” she says casually, taking a pull from her cigarette.</p><p>“Never better,” Richie gasps, feeling the soothing hum of nicotine hit his already alcohol-infused veins.</p><p>They smoke in relative silence for a few minutes, listening to the muffled bass and hoots of their classmates from inside the gym. The music swells briefly when the door swings open, and Eddie steps out into the cool blue of the back parking lot.</p><p>“Hey,” Eddie says, “I think my date abandoned me.”</p><p>“I think he’ll still give it up to ya tonight if you ask nicely,” Richie says, grinning. “I hear he’s a bit of a floozy.”</p><p>“I think he’s more of a romantic,” Eddie says plainly.</p><p>“What, a guy can’t be both? That’s not very feminist of you, right, Bev?”</p><p>Bev just shoots him a look.</p><p>Eddie fiddles with his tie. “Look, Richie, is everything alright?”</p><p>“Of course, Eds. Why wouldn’t it be?”</p><p>“I just — sorry if this is weird, God, I’m not good at this, but — you know it’s okay to touch me, right?” Eddie says, diverting his gaze to the asphalt.</p><p>Richie almost chokes on his cigarette.</p><p>“You just seemed kind of skittish in there,” Eddie says as Richie splutters. “Like, giving me a <em>look </em>or touching me and then… I dunno, moving off?”</p><p>Bev is looking away, trying to give them privacy, and Richie feels something crack in his chest. The cold concrete is numbing the sole of his one socked foot. </p><p>“Anyways,” Eddie continues. “I just wanted to tell you that it’s okay. To want me. I’m not afraid of that.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I am,” Richie says hoarsely.</p><p>“Rich,” Eddie says, his wide brown eyes meeting Richie’s. “That’s okay, too. We can go slow.”</p><p>Music is pouring out of the propped-open door, flashing colors spilling onto the pavement and melting into the clear blue twilight. A slow, swaying ballad starts, and as if on cue, Ben’s face pokes out the door.</p><p>“Oh, hey, guys,” he says cheerfully. “Bev, it’s a couples dance, and I was thinking we could…” He trails off, smiling bashfully.</p><p>“Perfect timing, babe,” Bev says quickly. She stubs her cigarette under her heel and rubs Richie’s shoulder gently before disappearing inside with Ben.</p><p>“Um, hey,” Richie says, clearing his throat. He bows deeply and holds a hand out to Eddie. “May I have this dance, my love?” He drawls out ‘dance’ so it sounds more like ‘<em>daahnce</em>’. </p><p>Eddie takes his hand and they waltz messily in the chilled air. It devolves quickly to a galloping circle around the small parking lot, both of them giggling tipsily.</p><p>“Stop, stop,” Eddie laughs breathlessly. He wraps his arms around Richie’s waist. “Let’s just dance.”</p><p>“That’s what we were doing, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says, but he loops his arms around Eddie’s shoulders. </p><p>They sway gently in the cool blue night. Richie is overtaken by the sweeping tide of affection he feels for Eddie, threatening to drown him in its undertow. Though maybe he needs to start applying more charitable metaphors. Whatever his thirteen-year-old self thought, the enormity of his feelings for Eddie won’t kill him, won’t hurt him, won’t hurt Eddie. Might even be returned. </p><p>It’ll take time. Richie will get there, they’ll both get there, eventually.</p><p>Richie squeezes Eddie’s shoulders, drinking in the sight of his best friend, sweaty and flushed and beaming. They have all the time in the world.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for reading, i hope you liked it! crazy how when i was doing my degree i could barely manage to string a thousand words together for a paper but now i write 20,000 word clown movie fanfic just for shits and gigs.</p><p>title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvsQPCbgJOA">bodys</a> by car seat headrest.</p><p>i'm on <a href="https://walloes.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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